It Don't End With Blood
by Lampito
Summary: Every so often, Sam wonders what it would have been like if his family could've been closer to 'normal', whatever that is. Even if it meant 'not being trapped in the car with Dean regaling him with tales of sexual conquests', that would be a start.
1. Chapter 1

And so, the winner of 'The Jimiverse's Next Top Plot Bunny', is... Bunny #2!

*Bunny #2 hops forward, tearfully accepts the sash and tiara from the previous bunny that inspired 'Wolf Whistle', while Bunny #1 and Bunny #3 exchange air kisses with it, and smile with gritted teeth while imagining stabbling Bunny #2 over and over with a rusty fork and roasting it with carrots, onions and bacon pieces*

In order to try to encourage Bunny #2 to be more forthcoming, I have teased a first chapter out of it. No actual plot outlined yet, and it's always a gamble starting a story before you know exactly where it's going, but we shall see what transpires. I make no promises, but sometimes just getting started can encourage it to elaborate.

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own 'em, otherwise I'd have thrown That Gamble Woman to the Leviathans by now. Then sent them all back to Purgatory. Without any dinner.

**WORKING TITLE:** It Don't End With Blood.

**RATING: T. **Because, hello, Dean Winchester. Beautiful natural acts. Foul Mouth. Unseemly fascination with battery powered items.

**SUMMARY: **Every so often, Sam wonders what it would have been like if his family could've been closer to 'normal'. Whatever that is. Mom and Dad, maybe even seeing his big bro settle down with one woman. Even if it means 'not being trapped in the car with Dean recounting sexual conquests', that would be a start.

**WHOSE FAULT IT IS:** The blame lies _entirely_ with the Denizens of the Jimiverse who keep encouraging me, and _especially_ with those who voted for Bunny #2. *frowns* You know who you are, you reprobates.

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

"So, we got back to her place," Dean went on with relish – Sam could hear the leer on his face – "And she couldn't keep her hands off me, she was like a damned octopus or something..."

"Dean," Sam threw his brother a double strength Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk), even though he knew Dean couldn't see him in the dim light, "So not interested, dude. And an octopus has tentacles with suckers, not hands."

"Yeah, suckers," his brother sniggered. "Anyway, she knew what she wanted and how to get it," Dean, sprawled on the front seat, carried on breezily, ignoring Sam's wishes as usual when it came to regaling his little brother with tales on the topic Chicks I Have Banged, "And I think she probably set a new world record for undressing the Living Sex God..."

"I really don't need this," Sam scowled, wiggling to try to get comfortable on the back seat of the Impala. They had run low on funds, and were between credit cards; it didn't happen often, but when it did, it left them living in the car on a diet of canned stew, Spaghettios, uncooked 2-minute noodles and baked beans. They were well accustomed to living in each other's pockets, but three days of cold sleet had made even brief escape from Dean's embroidered accounts – oh, God, Sam wanted to believe that they were embroidered, but feared that the Living Sex God was just relating an accurate account of his escapades – pretty much impossible.

"So, I like an assertive woman, don't get me wrong," Dean sailed on across Lake Libido, cheerily ignoring the cold front sweeping down from the heights of Mount Disapproval, "And I like 'em kinky, but I gotta admit, when this chick pulled out a kilt, I'm not kidding, she wanted me to wear a goddamned _kilt_, even I did a double take..."

"Dean, shut the hell up," moaned Sam. His iPod had gone flat earlier in the day, after his laptop had died, and he wouldn't be able to charge either of them again until the car was running, or they found somewhere with electricity. And a roof. A roof would be nice. One that was far enough up so he could stand. And a door. A door to put between himself and his brother. Yeah, a nice thick door, solid wood, or maybe steel. A nice concrete bunker, perhaps. And a bed. With a pillow. Not to sleep on, but to put over his brother's face.

"It turned out, she had this thing about Liam Neeson, and I'm way hotter than he is, so I thought, what the hell, and put this thing on, and you know, it's kinda comfortable, and it would make the whole concept of the quickie a lot easier, that is, if the Living Sex God did quickie, which he never does, he is a master of the slowie, obviously..."

"I hate you so much," Sam muttered, wiggling again, trying to stretch his legs and get the crick out of his neck. Just the earbuds alone wouldn't keep out the lecherous lecture. He'd tried.

"Hey, I haven't got to the really good bit yet!" Dean informed him happily. "Just when I think things are getting hot and horny, she leans over to the bedside table, and gets out this toy..."

"You are an agent of Satan, and I am this close to exorcising you, salting you, or shooting you," Sam warned.

"And I'm not kidding, it was a little battery powered Loch Ness Monster!"

"Right, that's it. Exorcisamus te, omnis satanica potestas..."

"Anyway, this thing, she turned it on, and... gah!" As Dean spoke, Sam sat up and sprinkled the week-old remains of a packet of potato chips over his big brother. Jimi, who had been snoozing in the shotgun foot well, suddenly sat up, whuffed in excitement, and began to snuffle up crumbs. "What the hell was that for?"

"It's the closest thing to salt that I had to hand," shrugged Sam. "It seems to have worked."

"Says you," humphed Dean. "Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, so she turned it on, and it glowed in the dark! It lit up! And it did this wiggling sort of thing, it actually kind of squirmed..."

"I'm so sorry, Dean," Sam sighed sadly, "I'll miss you, but I promise I'll take good care of Jimi and the car. Where do you want it? In the head? In the heart? No, if I really want to shut you up, I'll just shoot you in the ass, because not only is it where your keep your brain, it's what you're talking out of."

"Don't shoot me, Sammy," Dean gave his most infuriating grin, "I'll just get annoyed, then I'll come back and haunt you. Your laptop will always be freezing on porn sites. I'll follow you around and make girls' dresses blow up around their waists. I'll drag women to your room and frighten them into having sex with you, then I'll give you a mark out of ten, and a written critique."

"I'll salt and burn you," grumped Sam.

"It won't work," Dean informed him smugly, "You'll have to burn absolutely everything we own. Including your hairbrush. And I can't see you doing that."

Sam looked at his brother. "You used my hairbrush?"

"Not on me. On the dog." Jimi panted happily as he snuffled for chip crumbs. "But that means I touched it. Aieeee! Careful there, J-Man, mind the merchandise..."

"Oh, you are an asshole," Sam griped, lying back down on the seat. "Aren't we supposed to be trying to sleep?"

"I'm telling you a bedtime story," Dean insisted, "And I can't sleep with Jimi trying to perform a lewd act on me, thanks to you and your crumbs. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the battery-powered Loch Ness Monster."

"Kill me now," moaned Sam, wiggling once more to try to get comfortable.

"Hey, are you squirming back there, baby bro?" Dean enquired. "You're not jerking off, are you? Because I know a man has needs, Sam, if you need to jerk off, I can totally understand how the exploits of the Living Sex God would do it for any guy, but don't you get anything on Baby's upholstery, bitch."

Sam sighed heavily. "We gotta find somewhere to stay, a warehouse, a squat, an unoccupied house, anything, so I can get away from you. Before I go completely fratricidal." He ran a hand through his hair. "Yerk. Somewhere with running water would be a bonus. I think I can smell myself."

"Awwww, poor Princess Samantha, she likes her creature comforts," intoned Dean. "How about we find somewhere with a spa bath, steam shower, wired in hair dryer and curling tongs? Plenty of running water out there." He gestured to the freezing rain that was pelting the car. "Or, I could just finish my awesome bedtime story. You used to love it when I told you bedtime stories."

"When I was a kid, and you were my awesome big brother reading to me from my favourite picture book, yeah, I did," agreed Sam. "Now I'm grown up, and you're a disgusting pervert who's a slave to his hormones and has no shame and reads the stories from the pages of his own erotic adventures, not so much."

"Well, think of it as educational," suggested Dean. "You might learn something. You need to get laid, Sam. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, the Loch Ness Monster. The sex toy that time forgot..."

"Dean, I am warning you," rumbled Sam, "If you don't stop grossing me out right now, jerk, I will be forced to take drastic action."

Dean ignored him completely. "Yeah yeah, so shoot me. Or go sleep in the trunk. So, this thing lights up, and kind of wiggles, right, so we're in the middle of a beautiful natural act, with me wearing a kilt, and she gets this thing, and..."

Sam considered his options. Murder wasn't really viable: for a start, he'd be stuck in the car with Dean's corpse until the weather backed off enough for him to build a pyre, and he was pretty sure that his brother's restless ghost would just pick up the story exactly where it had paused briefly whilst his brains got splattered all over the dash. Physical violence was a possibility, although he'd then have to deal with a grumpy post-concussion Dean, which could be equally annoying. And, once again, he would probably just insist of picking up the story from where he was when Sam clocked him. He couldn't leave; it was getting dark, he had nowhere to go, and would be soaked by the freezing rain within a minute if he got out of the car.

He lifted one butt cheek, and broke wind with surprising volume, intensity, and musicality.

"Oh, shit!" barked Dean.

"No, I promise not to," replied Sam mildly, doing it again.

"Jesus, Francis!" Dean flapped a hand in front of his face, "Open a damned window!"

"Nope," Sam shook his head, "Not with that coming down outside. You open a window."

"Bitch," muttered Dean, making a gagging sound. "Oh, you are beyond putrid. Gaaah! How can you do that to me when I'm trapped in here with you?"

"That's funny," shrugged Sam, "I was just thinking the same thing about your story."

"That's not the same at all!" declared Dean. "I was trying to amuse you and lull you to sleep, not gas you to death! How the hell does that happen? Just how the hell does that happen? Food goes in one end, and the breath of Hell comes out the other!"

"It might be something to do with being the vessel of Lucifer," offered Sam. "A special demonic super power. You know how Heaven had its weapons? Maybe I was supposed to be one of Hells' nukes."

"That sounds horribly plausible," snarked Dean. "So you can just knock it off, right now."

"No can do, bro." _pfwaaaaarp _"I don't think the baked beans helped."

"Sam, you stop that! You stop that right now! Hold it in!"

"I can't do that. I might pop." _fweeerrrrrrrrrpth_

"Aaaaaargh! Oh, that is gross! I swear, you stop that, or I'll put a cork up your ass!"

"You do that, I'll shoot you with it." _thrurururururururp_

"Bitch," spat Dean, sitting up and starting the car, then reaching for the air con. "We are finding somewhere to stay. Anywhere where I can get away from you. Somewhere with a hermetically sealed pantry, so I can seal you in, and leave you there to dissolve in your own disgusting exhaust."

Grinning to himself, Sam climbed into the front seat. "Sounds like a plan."

Muttering to himself in a constant droning monologue complaining of being fumigated, Dean headed through the Montana town, pausing only when he spotted some parking ticket machines. When it became apparent that the purloined change would be enough to give him a stake to go hustling pool, he cheered up somewhat – or at least became less grumpy – as they headed for the outskirts of town, where a new housing estate offered refuge for the night in an empty house.

"Wow," said Sam, shrugging out of his wet jacket, "This is... nice."

"There's even a picket fence," huffed Dean in amusement, toeing off his boots. "Now, don't get water on the carpet, honey, and stay off the polished boards in those boots, we've got the Hendersons coming over from drinks, Trivial Pursuit and naked Twister tonight."

There were no furnishings, but the utilities were connected, which was an unexpected bit of luck ("Yes! Yes! Sammy, the main bathroom has a steam shower! I call first!"). Sam unrolled his sleeping bag, then spread out some wet clothes to dry in front of a radiator. While listening to Dean work his way through the first half of 'Ride The Lightning' in the master bathroom, he looked around the house.

It was nice. It was... a house. It was just an ordinary, achingly normal, house. There was a main bedroom, and secondary bedrooms. A small room that would make a perfect nursery, and what looked like a rumpus room. Maybe a husband would carry a wife across the threshold if they were feeling traditional, maybe christening the loungeroom floor in front of the fireplace...

He shook his head, smiling to himself. He'd been hanging around with Dean for too long. Somebody would move in here, and make this their home. This would be their home, and they'd have kids, raise a family here, and maybe, one day, the nursery would be turned into a sewing room, then the other bedrooms would be redecorated for when the grandchildren came to stay...

Sam had stopped playing the 'What If' game a long time ago. He'd tried normal; it hadn't worked out. He'd found that he liked it, though, if he could just ignore the ache of his missing big brother, his family.

But sometimes, just for a moment, he found himself wondering what it would have been like.

"Yeeeeeeeeee!"

The shriek from the bathroom broke him out of his reverie, and had him bursting through the door, gun in hand, Jimi at his heels. "Dean!" He couldn't see anything for the steam.

"It's okay, Sammy," a grinning head emerged from the cubicle, "I knocked the tap, and turned off the hot water. Man, that cold water is cold!"

"I thought you were being murdered," huffed Sam.

I thought I was being snap frozen," commented Dean. "You gotta try this, Sam, it's awesome! I'll be out in a minute."

As Dean once more gave voice to The Hetfield Within, Sam retreated to the lounge room where the sleeping bags were unrolled, and smiled wryly. Jimi curled up on his blanket and humphed contentedly, happy to be wherever his Alpha and Second were. At least tonight, they had a roof over their heads, even if it wasn't theirs.

"I'll take that change to a bank tomorrow, and find me a bar," Dean told him later as they prepared to turn in, "We'll be solvent again in no time. You can go to the library and nerd it up, see what you can find out about the disappearances."

"I haven't been able to come up with anything linking them so far," Sam commented, "Hopefully the library will have more stuff archived, they don't have a lot online."

"Well, you can do your thang, run that laptop red hot," Dean told said, "And keep an eye out for hot librarians." He looked thoughtful. "You better take that cork with you, just in case. If she asks about it, you can tell her it's for medical reasons."

"Good night Dean," Sam carefully avoided his brother's eyes, crawled into his sleeping bag, and turned off the flashlight he was using as a bedside lamp.

"Good night, Samantha," replied Dean, getting into his own sleeping bag and turning off his own flashlight.

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of Dean sniffing.

"What the...? Sam? Sam! You farted in my sleeping bag! Bitch!"

"Jerk," Sam grinned into the darkness, and rolled over.

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><p>Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Clutching The Sex Toy Of Dubious Legality In The Steam Shower Of Life! (Srsly, reviews help the bunny overcome its shyness.)<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Oh, the Denizens, they is teh generous with teh reviewing! Bunny has gone quiet for now, but did shyly dictate another chapter before clamming up. I think Real Life scares the bunnies as much as it scares me...

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

"On the face of it, there doesn't seem to be anything obvious connecting the people who've disappeared," huffed Sam, poking at his breakfast, "A librarian, a student, a dog walker, a plumber, a weed farmer, a nurse... are you even listening to me?"

"Ass inspector," announced Dean, eyeing the passing form of one of the waitresses.

"What?" asked Sam, tensing at what sounded suspiciously like a segue into another one of the Living Sex God's escapades. He was still living in fear of Dean picking up on The Tale Of The Light-Up Loch Ness Monster; it was like waiting for the other boot to drop.

"I thought you were telling me what you wanted to be when you grow up," Dean went on, "You know, like they asked you at school. Remember when you were five, you wanted to be a cow?"

"What?" Dean's brain could change direction more rapidly than a teenager swinging in the wind to point due cool. "Dean, I never said I wanted to be a cow!"

"Yes you did," Dean was adamant. "You said you wanted to be a cow, and you could do bullfighting and you'd squash the bullfighters to save all the other cows."

"I totally did _not_ want to be a cow!" Sam scowled, "Anyway, cows don't fight in the bull ring."

"You totally did," insisted Dean, "And you said that after you squashed the bullfighters, you'd make the best milkshakes ever for all the other cows."

"You're making this up," Sam gave Dean a dose of Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean).

"No I'm not. It was kinda cute, really," Dean smiled, then broke into a strange jiggling dance in his seat. "Sam's milkshake brings all the cows to the yard and they're like, it's better than yours, damn right, it's better than yours, he could teach you, but he'd have to charge... you even went around mooing for a week, and Dad waved a red shirt at you, then you charged at him, and threatened to squash him if he didn't give up bullfighting forever, and he begged for mercy as you mooed him into submission." Dean was openly laughing at the memory.

"I did?" Sam felt a pang of disappointment that he didn't remember that episode – it seemed that good memories of their Dad that were anything like normal childhood games were few and far between for him. "Pics, or it didn't happen," he said finally.

"Of course, you changed your mind a week later," Dean told him, "We'd just gotten used to the idea that we were going to have a cow in the family, when you came home and announced that you were going to be a penguin."

"At least when I was four, I never wanted to be pretty, like Mommy," Sam replied slyly.

The shutters came down on Dean's expression. "I don't know what you mean," he said brusquely.

"You got into Mom's make-up, before I was born," Sam informed him smugly, "And you drew on the wall, and then you drew on yourself, because, and I quote, 'I wanted to be pretty like Mommy'. Dad told me." The flush rising on his brother's face told him that Dean did remember the incident. "Dean, the pretty pretty princess..."

"If I'd known that Dad ever told you about that, I'd have shot him myself," Dean griped melodramatically.

"I was nine, and he was trying to distract me, after you got hurt," Sam recalled, thinking about the night John had informed him of Dean's cosmetic caper. That memory drove the amusement right out of his head.

_A Black Dog, Dad had said, only there were two of the damned things, and they hadn't found that out until one of them had torn into Dean before the teenager had finished emptying the clip into the fucking thing, and when Dad had come back to the car and bundled his brother's bleeding body in beside him Sam had clutched at him, imploring him not to die all the way to Bobby's, where the older Hunter had torn John a new one, then shoved him out of the way with a barked command to tend to his younger son, and while Bobby had stitched Dean up on the kitchen table, Sam clung to John, and in an uncharacteristic moment of clarity about what was needed, John did his best to reassure Sam, telling him that Dean was made of tough stuff, and when he recovered, and of course he would, Sam should ask him about the time he got into their Mom's make-up, did he know about that? Well, John remembered it like it was yesterday, and he'd tell Sam so he'd have something to tease his brother right back with as soon as Dean was better, because Dean looked so pretty in Mom's make-up, like a pretty pretty princess..._

"Pics, or it didn't happen," Dean grunted, seeing the sombre expression steal over Sam's face as his younger brother tried to decide whether or not that episode of John actually trying to act like a father counted as a good memory of him. "Anyway, I was just telling you, when I grow up I want to be an ass inspector. In fact, I'm willing to start right now."

"Fine, I'll get you apprenticed to a donkey breeder immediately," Sam snarked back. "What I was trying to tell you is that there's no obvious connection between the people who've disappeared. The only thing that they seem to have in common is the complete lack of any suspicious circumstances, which is presumably why the authorities have been slow to take an interest, if they have at all."

"FBI is always a possibility," Dean pointed out, "Feds can make anything sound suspicious. Or priests. Can we do priests?" He bit into a piece of bacon, and went on with a mouthful. "There was this chick once, in Tennessee, it was, and she had a thing about clergy, so I put on my cassock for her, and wow, can I get a hallelujah..."

"The thing is," Sam ploughed on, ignoring his brother's leer, "I need to get some more information before we decide how to tackle this one. I'll hit the library."

"While I go hustle us some cash," Dean nodded. He wrapped some bacon in a napkin to take to Jimi. "And if there are any hot chicks in need of consoling because a loved one has gone missing, I call first on interviewing them."

"Got it," Sam sighed. "I'll find us a cheap place to stay, while I'm at it."

"Why can't we stay at the house?" Dean almost whined. He'd insisted on using the steam shower again before they left. "That shower is totally cool. Chicks would love to do it in there!"

"No." Sam looked up. "Dean, you're pouting like a three-year-old. Stop it." Dean pouted harder. "Because somebody might notice us, and if the owners show up and start moving in while you're serenading them with the B-side of 'Ace of Spades', it will get awkward. Seriously, you look like a 'Jersey Shore' duckface pouting like that."

"If there's a hot chick moving in, she might want to join me," leered Dean, eyebrows waggling.

Honestly, thought Sam, his brother could've insinuated for the US, if Freestyle Insinuation was an Olympic sport. "Let's go," he said, "And if you decide to have a Titanic moment in the car, at least have the decency to text me first. And fog up the windows so you don't get arrested."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The library was something of a sanctuary, after Dean's bawdy breakfast banter, and Sam settled into the familiar ambiance. The newspaper archives were a mixture of online files, microfiche and ageing paper, as were various civic records, so he started working his way backwards, looking for anything that might shed light on the disappearances.

It was slow going; research always was, especially at the beginning of a case. At least the building provided plenty of natural light; it was an older edifice, with large windows; as hours slipped by, Sam found himself eventually distracted by the outside world.

It was only a few days until Thanksgiving. In the park across the street, a family had apparently decided to make an early start on seasonal festivities, despite the November chill. Two men, possibly brothers from the resemblance, kicked a soccer ball. A child toddled into the game, grabbing the ball and making a spirited escape attempt, until being swept up by a laughing... Father? Uncle? An older man (grandfather?) who was talking to a woman (mother? Grandmother? It was impossible to tell at the distance) laughed and shook his head. Some brotherly push-and-shove ensued; he could almost hear the laughing exchange that followed.

No fair, your sprog stole the ball!

Only because you kick like a girl.

You had an extra man on the field. Penalty, bro.

All's fair in love and war and soccer, dude.

_Jerk._

_Bitch._

_What would it have been like? _

_If Mary hadn't died, if Dad hadn't been consumed by a crusade of revenge, if Dean had settled down with one woman, if his family had been together, and happy..._

Since he was old enough to understand just how not normal his family was, he'd been battling with the treacherous little voice. Years ago, he's squelched it, and learned not to pay it any attention; if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. And Sam would have a mother and a father, going gracefully grey – or growing old disgracefully, even – and a sister-in-law, maybe even legally bound via matrimony, and a nephew to kick a ball with, and maybe even plans for a career and a family of his own one day...

Dean and his reminiscing about Sam's aspiration to professional bovinity, he decided, that's what had caused it (he truly didn't remember it, but found himself wishing that he did, he really wished he did). That, and the house, the completely ordinary, normalness of the house.

Normal wasn't all it was cracked up to be, he reminded himself sternly. 'Normal' was Gary the Gluten Intolerant Virgin Nerd Demon-Dabbler. And 'normal' would've excluded Bobby, the man who was the closest thing to family he had, after Dean. Bobby was right about one thing: family didn't end with blood. No, he told himself, completely 'normal' would never have worked for him, not if it meant becoming a Gary (without the demon-dabbling bit) and losing Bobby. In fact, he thought with a small smile, given what he knew about his family, apple pie normal probably wouldn't have worked for any of them.

_If Mary hadn't died, if Dad hadn't been consumed by a crusade of revenge, if Dean had settled down with one woman, if his family had been together, and happy..._

_What would it have been like? _

Boring, he told himself, it would've been boring, and he'd have spent hours as a teen bemoaning just how boring his family, his world, his total existence was.

He felt a presence at his left elbow, and turned to see an elderly face smiling kindly at him.

"Penny for them, dear," she said, depositing a steaming mug at his elbow. It was hot chocolate. "You've been hard at work for hours," she went on at his look of enquiry, "And you looked like you could use a break."

"Thanks," he smiled back. "I was just looking at that... family. Outside." He pointed out the window. "They look like they're... having fun." If she saw his wistful expression, quashed as quickly as it surfaced, she didn't say anything. "That smells really good. Although, I, er, grew up as a library user in libraries where even thinking about eating or drinking was a hanging offence."

"Oh, so did I, dear," she winked mischievously, "But when you're the head librarian, well, what's the point of absolute power if you don't abuse it from time to time?" She held out a hand. "Moira Parker. And I have some cookies behind the counter, if you are feeling really rebellious."

"Sam Bonham," he replied, using his alias du jour.

"Oh, like the drummer?" she asked brightly.

"Er, yeah," he replied, somewhat nonplussed.

Moira the librarian shook her head. "A tragic thing, just tragic," she said sadly, "Such a destiny, cut short by such a sad choice." She sighed, and looked at the papers before him. "You've been working hard on something."

"Uh, yeah," he nodded, "College project. A Journalism course. On people who've gone missing, just upped and... gone."

She gave him an appraising look, intelligent eyes bright through her glasses. "Well, I hope you find what you're looking for," she said eventually, smiling again. "Remember, cookies behind the counter. Help yourself. Glucose is the brain's preferred energy source after all, so in a library, they're practically health food."

"You sound just like my brother," he commented, tasting the chocolate. It was really good.

"I'll take that as a compliment," she acknowledged, "I get the feeling that your brother is important to you."

"Yeah. Yeah, he is," Sam couldn't help smiling, as Moira headed back to her desk.

He kept working, taking advantage of Moira's invitation to raid her cookie jar, until he glanced at his watch, and realised how much time had passed. He gathered his notes and left, heading back to meet his brother at the car as arranged.

It was cold outside – most people seemed to have headed backindoors. As he approached the Impala, he saw that Dean was not there yet either. He was at once relieved, and annoyed: Dean couldn't complain about his lateness if he wasn't there himself, but it was cold and Dean had the key.

He was standing on the sidewalk by the rear quarter panel, texting his brother, when something very solid connected with the side of his head very hard, and he was out cold before he could hit the ground.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The familiar purr of the Impala's engine probably contributed to the slowness with which he came back to consciousness. It was only once he realised that he was in the trunk that he jolted towards wakefulness. His head was thumping – he touched it gingerly, and his hand came away sticky – but he didn't think anything was broken. Of course, that could just be the concussion that he must have talking...

Fuzzily, he tried to figure out what the hell had happened. Library. He'd been at the library. Looking out the window. Going through back issues of newspapers. Then he'd noticed the time, and gone out to meet Dean by the Impala, then... lights out.

It was Dean. Dean had hit him. It had to be. The only reason he wouldn't react to someone approaching him from behind was because it was Dean. Well, okay, they'd bickered at breakfast, but he didn't think he'd done or said anything to warrant being whacked in the head and shoved into the trunk, despite Dean's frequent threats to feed him burritos, put him in there and let him gas himself. Something was wrong.

By judicious wiggling, he was able to ascertain that his weapons were gone. That pointed to Dean, too. And getting at anything under the false bottom of the trunk would be impossible with his Sasquatch carcass jammed in on top of it. He swore, and winced, and started making a mental list of what could have happened. Some sort of possession? Skinwalker, maybe?

Sam found himself hoping that it wasn't a djinn with some kinky ideas about fantasy lives, when the car stopped, a door opened, and the trunk lid sprang up. Squinting into the suddenly bright light, he came out fighting.

"Hey, hey, take it easy!" Dean had hold of his shoulders, fending him off. "We're here. You okay, dude?"

"Okay?" Sam spluttered in outrage he saw his brother, just his brother, peering anxiously into his eyes. "Am I _okay_? You thump me in the head, stuff me in the trunk, drive me to God knows where, and now ask me if I'm _okay_? I can't see straight, my ears are ringing, and I think I'm about to lose my breakfast! What the _fuck_ is your malfunction?"

"Look, I'm sorry, I don't have time to explain," Dean told him earnestly, grabbing him by the arm and pulling, "But this is important. Just play along, okay? Follow my lead."

Sam muttered something uncharitable, but nonetheless followed his brother into the warehouse they'd pulled up alongside. "You owe me an explanation, jerk," he griped.

"I will, I will," Dean reassured him with an encouraging smile. "Come on, this way. Quietly."

They made their way silently through the dusty, cobweb encrusted detritus of an abandoned industrial space to a set of what must once have been office or workshop spaces. Dean crept along a paint-spattered wall to a solid door, and indicated that the room beyond was their destination.

"What now?" whispered Sam, barely audible.

"Shhhhhh! She'll hear you!" snapped Dean. "Come on, on three, one, two, THREE!"

Dean kicked in the door, grabbed Sam, and shoved him into the room, where he fell to his knees.

"Ta-daaaaah!" announced Dean sunnily. "Happy Birthday!"

Sam looked up into a face he wasn't expecting. His jaw dropped in surprised confusion.

"What the...?" was all he managed before he threw up, keeled over and passed out.

* * *

><p>Aha! Over in T.J.N.T.P.B., you all thought it was Sam's birthday, didn'y you, didn't you, huh, huh, huh?<p>

Reviews are the Slightly Naughty Hot Chocolate In the Library Of Life! (If that doesn't suffice, they can be the Sam In A Penguin Suit on the Ice Floe Of Life, or maybe Dean In A Dog Collar in the Chapel Of Life. I'll leave it up to you. Leahelisabeth may have the Dazed And Confused Post-Concussion Sam Moaning Piteously And Needing Tending Whilst Lying on the Sofa Of Life, if she wants.)


	3. Chapter 3

Go, little bunny, go!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

_Ow. Ow. Ow._

The throbbing ache in his head beat in time with his pulse. _Ow. Ow. Ow._

He groped unsteadily back towards consciousness, not worrying too much because he heard a familiar voice encouraging him.

"Hey, come on, buddy, wake up for me," said Dean, gently slapping his face, "Let me see those gorgeous puppy-dog eyes."

_I'm going to kill you for this, you jerk_, was what Sam's brain instructed Sam's mouth to say, _I am going to kill you until you die. There will be pointy sticks involved. And lavender. And tofu. It will not be quick, it will not be clean, and you will beg for death before I am done..._

What came out was: "Hrrrmf argl."

Fuck it. A small part of him told him that it was all right, he could let his big brother handle this, just lie back and enjoy the feeling of your head splitting open and your stomach trying to turn itself inside out. With a bit of luck, he would end up tossing his cookies – well, tossing Moira's cookies, technically – on Dean. It would be a shame to waste them, but that was a sacrifice he was prepared to make. _I intend to puke on you, you asshole,_ Brain Of Sam dictated to Mouth Of Sam to be relayed to Brother Of Sam, _And I hope it stains your shirt, gets in your shoes, and leaves unspeakable chunky bits in your hair for the next girl you screw to find and she'll go 'Ewwww!' and leave the Living Sex God with a confused expression and a raging hard on..._

"Hrrrrnt prrrrrg," he said.

"Dean?"

The sound of her voice was like a bucket of cold water. He gasped, and lurched, grabbing at Dean's arm. "Rrrrbl!"

"Whoa, big fella! That's it," Dean encouraged, grabbing his shoulders and holding him up, "There ya go, I gotcha."

"Dean, how hard did you hit him?" That voice, it sounded so damned concerned, oh, but it was good at that, wasn't it, sounding so concerned, and sincere, like it almost cared about his welfare. "He doesn't look good."

"Rrrrbl!" said his voice again.

_Ruby, _supplied his brain, _You meant to say Ruby! Somebody contact the hands! Stand by to tear that bitch's lying fucking head clean off her stolen shoulders!_

"Rrrrbl!"

_Oh, fuck it, _decided his brain, _I'll just sit here and wait to see what happens for a bit._

"No, no, he's fine," Dean reassured her, propping Sam up, and turning his face to look muzzily at her. _Ow. _"See? Just a bit wobbly, but he's fine."

Ruby got off her chair, and hunkered down to inspect Sam. "He's not supposed to be cross-eyed," she said accusingly. "And he's certainly not supposed to go 'Rrrrbl'."

"Maybe he's Russian," Dean suggested, "And he wants to charge for it. You know, roubles." He looked at Sam thoughtfully. "You could, you know," he commented. "What's Russian for male escort?"

Ruby huffed at Dean with a look of exasperated indulgence. "Dean, you hit him too hard. That wasn't really necessary."

"I didn't! I didn't!" Dean protested. "I hardly touched him! He's just... he came out of the library. If he's been in there all day, he was probably bored halfway to catatonia already. Looks like the student type. Working as a Russian male escort to pay his tuition fees." Dean smiled at Sam. "Come on, wake up! It's a birthday party!"

Ruby looked at them both, and shook her head, smiling fondly. "You don't have to do this, you know," she said to Dean in an amused voice, "You'll get caught."

"No I won't," Dean defended himself, feigning wounded pride. "I never get caught! Besides, it makes you so happy. And he's just your type! Tall, dark, and almost as handsome as me."

"You are an idiot," she shook her head, laughing.

"Yeah, but I'm your idiot," he replied, letting go of Sam to put an arm around her and give her a peck on the cheek. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

"You're really not so tough, are you, Winchester," she prodded him playfully in the chest, "You are just a big squishy marshmallow on the inside."

"It depends on who's doing the squishing," Dean pouted, hugging her.

Eyes bugging in shock, confusion and _Ow,_ Sam pushed himself up on one elbow. "Argh... er, yrgl," he panted, "What the fuck?"

"Oh, hey, he's speaking English!" Dean noted happily, "I told you I didn't hit him too hard!" He turned back to Sam. "Look, it's like this," he explained matter-of-factly, "Every year, I like to get my girl a special birthday present, and this year, you're it!" He smiled winningly. "Hey, you should feel honoured, she's very choosy..."

"Deeeeean," Ruby rolled her eyes and looked embarrassed.

"So, why don't I leave you two to get... acquainted," he waggled his eyebrows, "And I'll be back later when you're finished."

"Nrrfp?" asked Sam, wincing, head spinning and stomach churning. _Ow._

"Don't feel too bad about it," Dean clapped him sympathetically on the shoulder, "If spending the day in the library is your idea of a good time, your life isn't worth living anyway. Just ring when you want me to take the garbage out," he told Ruby, making an elaborate bow, and leaving with a lewd wink.

"I'm so sorry about him," Ruby told Sam apologetically, actually looking embarrassed, "He does this every year, and I tell him not to, but, well, I'm afraid he's got a romantic streak in him a mile wide. Wild horses wouldn't get him to admit it, though," she smiled a beautiful smile at him. "So, my name's Ruby, what's yours?"

"Christo," Sam gritted out through clenched teeth, then wondered why he was bothering – if he threw up on her, it might just make him feel better. Not quite as satisfying as puking on Dean, or pulling this demon bitch's head off, but it would be something.

She looked confused, but didn't flinch. "Christo? Your name's Christo? That's an interesting name. Sounds vaguely Greek. You of Greek descent?"

"Ngh?" Sam stared at her, bug-eyed, dazed and too flummoxed to summon rational thought. "Ruby... you...Ruby?"

"Oh dear, the lights are on, but the occupants aren't all home are they?" She frowned in disapproval. "I promise you, I will slap his butt for this, and not so he enjoys it." She patted him gently on the arm, and reached carefully into his pocket, pulling out his latest ID. "Sam? You're Sam! That's better, you look like a Sam. So, Sam," she smiled again, "Welcome to my birthday party!"

"Whatever... you playing at... not interested," he rasped.

She looked hurt. "Don't be like that," she said in a small voice, "Come on, I'll bet you have a gorgeous smile. Dean always picks me one with dimples!"

He shut his eyes against nausea. "Go to Hell," he managed.

"Oh, no doubt I will, one day," she winked at him, "But right now – Happy Birthday to me!"

With that, she extruded a mouthful of fangs.

"Vampire", he breathed.

"Give the man a cigar," she giggled, biting into his neck to feed.

_Look, _said his brain,_ This can't possibly be real, so I'm just going to run around in circles giggling manically and flapping my neurons up and down for a while, okay? Come get me when you figure out what's going on. I'm a teapot! I'm a teapot!_

" 'Kay," he told his brain, because it was right, this had to be some sort of nightmare. He was only hallucinating the feeling of the blood gushing from the wound.

_Or it's the concussion,_ his brain supplied, _You were on a Hunt, and got me concussed, so I'm making this shit up just to mess with you. Did you like the vampire thing? Right outta left field, right? Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to spin around on the spot until I fall over, or you puke. Wheeeeee!_

He was starting to see spots when suddenly Ruby pulled back and stared at him, shocked. He slid gently sideways to end up sprawled on the floor. Nice floor, he thought, thank you for catching me. You don't get consideration like that from walls, they just hit you hard when you get thrown into them.

"That's impossible," Ruby muttered, to herself as much as to him, "That's impossible, you can't be, you can't be, you're... Dean!" She practically screeched for his brother, "DEAN!"

Dean burst in through the door, gun drawn. "What is it?" he demanded, weapon trained on Sam, "Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head, wide-eyed. "No, no," she said, "Dean, he's... he... he's a Winchester. I'm sure of it. His name is Sam. I... I think he might be your brother."

Dean gasped, and dropped his gun.

He dropped to his knees beside Sam, his face white with shock and his eyes shining.

"Sammy?" he whispered, voice shaking, "Sammy? Is it you? Is it really you?"

" 't's Sam," Sam slurred, " Y'r' a jerk, Dean. 'N' I hope I puke on you."

Darkness pulled at him again, but he felt Dean gather him into a bear hug, and the shaking that followed convinced him that was all just another post-hunt concussion-induced hallucination, because Dean Did Not Do Hug, and he certainly never let himself cry in front of anybody, especially Sam.

"Sam, Sam," Dean sobbed, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I gotcha, baby bro, I gotcha, I'll fix this..."

He caught sight of Ruby, and she was crying too – yep, definitely hallucinating – and caught snatches of conversation. "John, I didn't believe it either, but it's true..."

"D'n?" Sam mumbled.

"Yeah, bro?" Dean sniffled and laughed, apparently relishing the word.

" 'M gonn' throw up 'n you now, th'n pass out 'gain," Sam informed him.

"That's cool, little bro," Dean assured him, patting his back soothingly, "As long as it makes you feel better."

" 'Kay." Sam made good on his prediction.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

_Ow. Ow. Ow._

_This is getting old,_ muttered Sam's brain.

He wasn't in the trunk or even on that nice polite and considerate floor this time, he was on something soft. Soft thing. Soft thing you lie on. Thing. Lie down. Marshmallow. Alpaca. Bed. That was the word, bed. With a thing. Under his thing. More comfortable than the thing, at least. And a cold thing. On the side of his thing. Pillow. Head. Floor. Cold pack.

His brain had made the decision that it wasn't going to come out to play until reality had re-established itself – it had been dicked around enough for one day, thank you very much. He drifted, half-awake, until one of his eyes decided to try cracking open. _Go ahead,_ said his brain, _See where it gets you, but don't come running to me if the light makes you want to scoop yourself right out of your socket._

The thing – room – was dimly lit, so his eye blew a raspberry back at his brain. But moving his head was out of the question, lest it fall right off.

A stinging sensation at his neck made him wince, and clumsily he reached to swat away whatever was causing it.

"Hey, hey, cut that out," he heard his brother's voice admonish gently, "I gotta clean this up. You just lie there and bask in my awesomeness."

Sam let out a small sigh of relief. Dean. Dean was patching him up. That brave little eye rolled around the room, and quickly established that there was no Ruby vampire. He let himself relax a bit; something had happened, he'd been concussed, which is why he couldn't remember and he'd had those weird hallucinations, but Dean had hauled him back to a motel room, and was now patching him up. We apologise for the break in regular transmission, we now return you to your scheduled program...

_Are we good?_ asked his brain cautiously.

"Leave that, Mr Handsy," Dean pushed his other hand away from the ice pack against his head, "You're gonna have a hell of a bump there. Might even get a scar. Not that you'll be able to impress girls with it, if it's covered up with all that hair. How did my brother end up looking like such a girl?"

_Don't be such a pussy, _scoffed his eyes,_ It's just Dean, see?_

Sam let Dean's monologue wash over him, the familiar berating that was all part of the protocol for Dean patching up his little brother. Dean was cleaning out a wound on his neck, a nasty one, from the feel of it, but his brother was thorough and careful.

Once it was dressed, Dean handed him some pills. "Think you can manage these?" he asked. When Sam nodded, he helped his brother to take them, holding the glass for him. "I can't give you anything stronger," he said regretfully, "But Doc said these would be okay." He patted Sam tenderly on the shoulder.

"Doc?" Sam asked faintly, thinking he must've misheard.

"Yeah, he wasn't far away," Dean told him, "Dad suggested that I call him, then he insisted on coming to check you out."

"Dad?" Sam yelped, then squawked as his head stabbed him. _AAAAAARGH!_ went his brain, running for cover again.

"Hey, hold still! Concussion, remember?" Dean scolded. "No. I guess you don't," he grinned wryly. "Concussion."

"Dad's dead!" Sam said, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Oh Sammy," Dean's eyes swam again, as he sighed deeply. He sat by Sam's bed, put a reassuring hand on his arm, and carded his other hand carefully through Sam's hair, "This has got to be so hard for you, baby bro," he wavered. "Just... give yourself time, okay? Give yourself time. I'm here, Sam, I'm here for you."

_Well that explains everything,_ huffed Sam's brain, _Somebody has abducted Dean, and replaced him with an alien from Planet Touchy-Feely in the Emoting System._

"I'll explain as much as I can. You probably don't remember so much of it. You were so young..." a tear spilled over and ran down Dean's cheek. "Of course, you'll have to fill us in, too. When you're feeling better. Right now, just worry about recovering, okay?"

"Er, okay," agreed Sam, dubiously.

"You always were the brave little soldier," Dean sniffed, and bent down to hug him briefly before checking the ice pack. "This one's melting. You need another one. Ruby!" He called over his shoulder.

The face Sam despised popped around the door. "Yeah?"

"We need another ice pack," Dean told her. "And maybe some juice."

"I'm on it," she replied with a smile, "They'll be here inside thirty. Good to see you awake, Sam," she added, before disappearing again.

"Dad's dead!" Sam repeated faintly. "Dean, what the fuck is going on? Ow."

"You saw that, huh?" Dean grinned. "That's what the press thought. The cops never found a body, though, so I don't think they're convinced, but he hasn't been positively ID-ed since, so he's happy for Mr and Mrs Average American just to keep thinking that. He's alive, Sam, and they'll be here soon."

"Ruby..." Sam tried again, "Vampire."

"Er, yeah," Dean actually looked sheepish, "Okay, yeah, that is goin' to take some explaining. And I will. Just as soon as you're in shape for it. Ah, here's room service now."

"Okay, we got a fresh ice pack, some orange juice, and some lemon balm and camomile tea. Good for headaches." Ruby put down the tray. "I made you some PB&Js, too. Dean said you used to love PJ&Js," she smiled lovingly at his big brother. "If you can manage it, it would be good for you to eat something. You puked quite a bit." She looked concerned, then laid a hand on his forehead. "You're not feverish, are you?" she asked anxiously, "You really don't look well." She glared accusingly at Dean.

"I apologised," Dean muttered, shame-faced, "I did. And I'll look after him until he's better."

"If that boy isn't up and around in time for Thanksgiving, she'll flay you with a blunt knife," Ruby said, with a certain amount of satisfaction, her face drawn into a cat's ass of disapproval, "And I for one will be pleased to help her."

Before he could slap Ruby's hand away or ask who 'she' was, there was an audible knocking on an outside door. "That'll be Doc now," Ruby said with some relief, going to answer it.

"Dean," Sam said slowly, "Dean, you tell me what the fuck is going on, right now, or I'll... I'll..."

"Puke on me again?" Dean patted his arm reassuringly as the door opened. "Hey, you're safe from my ministrations now," he grinned, "Doc's here. How ya doin', Doc?"

"Better than a certain long-lost relative of yours, I suspect," said a British accent, tinged with exasperation. "And I suspect I'll have to treat your father for a heart attack when he gets here. So, is this the patient? Hello Sam," the man carrying a doctor's bag smiled warmly at him. "You probably don't remember me, you were just a youngster last time I saw you..."

"I remember you!" hissed Sam, "Get the fuck away from me, Crowley!"

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Bewildered or Unexpectedly Touchy-Feely Winchester Of Your Choice on the Thing Of Life!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you, Denizens, your fickriter loves you all! *sniff*

But for now, we may have a problem; the fanfic police want to test the plot bunny for amphetamine use! Hide the bunny! Hide the bunny! Somebody shelter the bunny!

PaulatheCat, I have never watched an episode of 'Jersey Shore' and I never will, because there are limits to the absolute garbage I will put up with. It is only through the Cheezburger network that I have become appraised of the existence of strange orange women with duck faces, and indeed, strange orange men with duck faces. And hair like toilet brushes. I thought it was some sort of Oompa Loompa cosplay thing, or possibly a doco on a clinic treating collagen addicts; sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

Whatever reaction Sam was expecting, it wasn't the one he got.

"Oh dear," sighed Crowley in an indulgent voice, "It seems that he does remember me."

Dean, meanwhile, burst into laughter, although for a moment it seemed that he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "He remembers!" he whooped, "He remembers you, Doc!"

Sam managed to get one hand around the glass of water, and pulled it towards himself, muttering.

"Is one of you going to fill me in here?" asked Ruby in good natured bemusement. "Help me out, Sam," she added, with a roll of her eyes, "What's the big joke? You made him pretend the thermometer was a choo-choo before you'd open your mouth as a kid?"

"Oh, if only that was all there was to it," sighed Crowley, smiling and shaking his head. "I still have the scars, you know," he told Sam. "Incisors like a bloody chipmunk, you had."

"Oh, God," Dean chuckled, wiping his eyes, "Sam gashed his leg open, when he was a kid. He must've been, what, five? And it was bleeding all over the place, and he was screaming, and there was so much blood I started screaming too, so I grabbed him, and took him back to the house, and Mom called Doc, and then, when he shows up, he says to Sam, 'Young man, that will need sutures, and I need you to be brave for me,' and so Mom's holding him, and Doc gets out a syringe to give him a local first, and he says, 'Now then, this is medicine so it doesn't hurt, just a little prick', and Sam says, Sam says, "You get that thing away from me, you great big prick'!"

Ruby's eyes went wide, and she gasped. "You didn't!" she said to Sam.

"He totally did!" confirmed Dean. "Anyway, Mom was horrified, and then Dad came in, and she said, 'John, where did he pick up language like that?' and Dad says, 'Like what?' and then Sam says, 'You get the hell away from me, you asshat!' And Sam's still screaming, and I'm still screaming, and then Mom starts screaming at Dad, because she's sure it's his fault, and Dad's like 'WTF?' and, and, Doc's like, 'All right, Sam, let's see that leg', and then, Sam bites Doc Crowley's hand, and hangs on, and _he's_ trying not to scream, and saying 'Er, excuse me, Mary, John, a little help, here?', but Mom's screaming at Dad, and I'm screaming at everybody, and Sam's dug in like a tick on a prairie dog..."

"All true, all true," Crowley nodded, "A very... loud incident."

"So now, there's blood coming out of Sam's leg, and blood coming out of Doc's hand," Dean chortled, "And to get him to let go, Doc had to pinch his nose. Then, when Sam lets go, he latches onto the _other_ hand, and then Doc started screaming too..."

"I'm afraid I may have reverted to intemperate language at that point," Doc Crowley said sheepishly.

"Then when Sam finally lets go," Dean continued, "Doc muttered something that I did hear, but won't repeat in polite company, and gets this other bottle out of his bag, and he managed to get Sam sedated, but before he went under, Sam yelled 'That man's a frigging demon and I don't want him near me!', then Doc stitched up Sam, then Mom stitched up Doc, and the place looks like a murder scene, and Dad was in the dog house but he didn't know why, and then Doc had to sedate me too, because I was so wound up I was still screaming even though there wasn't anything left to scream about. And after that day, Sam wouldn't let Doc anywhere near him," Dean smiled fondly at Sam. "He called him an asshat demon, and would hide under the bed. Doc had to get Mom to take his temperature and hold the stethoscope. And somehow, every time Doc visited, Sam would manage to sneak salt into his tea."

"I started to get used to it," shrugged Doc Crowley, opening his bag. "Salted tea is a daily staple in northern Pakistan and Kashmir. Mind you, those Afghan residents of the Hindu Kush think that playing polo with a dead goat is fun, so they probably think that taking it with milk and sugar will turn them into raging fairies." He smiled at Sam again. "Thankfully, we're all grown up now – well, I still have my reservations about Dean, 'arrested development' it used to be called – so I'm hoping I can practise my calling without being in danger of mauling?" He offered Sam a rueful grin. "Because you're a lot bigger than me now," he added.

Sam glared mutely, clutching his glass of water.

"Sam," Dean said, chuckles subsiding, "Doc Crowley looked after us when we were kids. He delivered you, for Christ's sake! He's your Godfather!"

"Dean," Crowley said equably, "As a rule, medicine is not a spectator sport, perhaps you could stop hovering like an anxious helicopter and leave me with my patient?" The suggestion carried quiet authority. "I promise you, Sam," he smiled again, "I won't eat you. Unlike somebody I could name..."

Ruby stuck her tongue out at him, then took Dean's arm. "Come on, Mother Hen," she coaxed, "Let's leave the good doctor with the other vampire..."

"Just yell if he draws blood, Doc," grinned Dean, "We'll come in with the dead man's blood."

"Why does that not reassure me in the least?" Crowley pleaded with an uncaring universe.

The moment the door shut behind them, Sam growled "Christo."

"Bless you," replied Crowley, calmly opening his bag. "Now, contrary to what your brother says, I do not as a rule dunk my stethoscope in dry ice before use..."

Having finished the blessing of his glass of water, Sam flung it with as much force as he could muster.

"Oh dear," sighed Crowley, spitting out a mouthful, "You really never will forgive me, will you?"

Sam blinked. He was sure that he got the invocation to produce holy water right, rattled brain notwithstanding.

"Um," he went.

Crowley sighed. "Look, Sam," he began, "I cannot begin to understand the traumatic experience that the last few hours must have been for you. And as to what happened before that..." he looked away, clearly distressed. "What happened, after CPS took you... you don't have to talk about that. Just know that you're back with your family now, and they love you, and will look after you, and will never let anyone hurt you again."

"CPS?" Sam echoed faintly.

"It's not surprising if you don't remember," Crowley smiled that compassionate smile again, "Or if you don't want to remember. Oh, Sam, whatever those bastards told you about your family..." he shook his head. "I thought it would kill them. All of us. Your father cried like a baby. Your brother didn't speak for weeks. Old Man Singer crawled into a botte and didn't come out for a fortnight. Your mother, dear God, she went through half a dozen case workers before your father convinced her to stop, the last one she practically dismembered with her bare hands..."

"Mom?" Sam's eyes went wide.

"She said she was prepared to kill every last CPS worker in the country to get you back," Doc Crowley stated grimly, "And I don't think she was exaggerating. They tried everything, _everything_, called in every favour and used every contact they had, trying to get you back. Oh, Lord, lad, it's beyond wonderful to have you back..." he broke off, and bit back a sob. "I don't care if you bite off every single one of my fingers and start on my toes, it's just so good to have you back. Oh dear," he smiled, and wiped his eyes, "Look at me, I'm getting as bad as your brother, Mr Let's Talk About Our Feelings. That won't do. Terribly unBritish. Stiff upper lip, and all that." His tone turned warmly businesslike. "Now, please let me examine you. Your brother is terribly worried. He'll never forgive himself for whacking you so hard..."

Sam lay more or less in shock as Crowley checked him out, pronounced him badly concussed, contused and confused, but otherwise healthy.

"Are you really my Godfather?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"Yes I am," Crowley smiled, "Your mother asked me when you were only minutes old. Where do you think your middle name came from? 'Fergus' isn't exactly an old Winchester family name. I suppose they changed it, though. Ruby said you were raised as Sam Bonham." He looked at Sam with disturbingly avuncular affection. "When your brother was born, he was, frankly, an ugly little goblin – bright red, no teeth, no hair, head shaped like a hollow point bullet, and screaming the place down. I'm just amazed your mother didn't try to give him back. But you... you were the most beautiful, perfect little thing I'd ever seen. You had a good howl, then you looked at me with those eyes, and Mary joked that if I didn't hand you over soon, she'd break both my arms. At least, I'm almost certain she was joking."

Sam shut his eyes. "I'm Sam Winchester," he said, more to himself than anyone else, "But... this isn't happening. It's not real. None of this makes any sense."

"I'm not surprised," Crowley agreed amiably, "But it will get better, as you get better. Now, I shall summon your brother, and give him his instructions. My advice is that you shamelessly take advantage of him."

Dean came running when Crowley called him. "Your brother is concussed, surprise surprise," he said sternly.

Dean flushed with shame. "But he'll recover, right, Doc?" he asked slightly desperately.

"Yes, he will," Doc answered, "But this is real life, Dean, not the movies. He won't take a couple of aspirin and be up and around within the hour. His recovery will take time, and lots of rest, and since you are the one who whacked him, I think it only fair that you be the one to look after him," he finished, an actual twinkle in his eye.

"I can do that!" Dean declared, "I did it when we were kids, it was my job! I can totally do that!"

"God help you, Sam," murmured Ruby, "Prepare to be mother henned to death."

"I'm not a mother hen!" Dean yapped.

"Cluck cluck cluck, pe-KAAAAAARK!" went Ruby, flapping her arms.

"Pay no attention to the congenital idiots," Crowley flapped a hand at Dean and Ruby, "The doctor prescribes bed rest, analgesics, plenty of fluids and comfort food. I advise no TV or computer screens for a couple of days." He closed his bag. "Now, what does a man have to do to get a cup of tea around here?"

"You always say that I can't make tea to save myself," Dean frowned.

"You, dear boy, no, but your lovely paramour is a willing student, and can make an entirely satisfactory brew of the cup that refreshes," Crowley told him. "I don't suppose you have any of those excellent biscuits to go with it?" He patted Sam on the shoulder. "I prescribe some of Ruby's cooking when you're feeling up to eating," he said conspiratorially, "The girl has great talents."

"But... but... she's a vampire," Sam blurted out.

"Pish tosh, young man," frowned Crowley, "None of us can help what we get bitten by. And her culinary skills more than make up for a little bloodthirstiness. Much like your mother, really."

"Mom's... is my Mom a vampire?" squeaked Sam.

Crowley laughed in genuine amusement. "What? Oh, no, definitely not. Mary Winchester is much scarier than a vampire." Still chuckling, he left the room.

"If you like that camomile and lemon balm tea, I'll make you some more later," Ruby told him, following Doc Crowley, "Just place an order with the Rhode Island Red, here."

"Cow," Dean smiled at her.

"Ass," she shot back, blowing him a kiss.

Sam thought he might just throw up again.

"I got something of yours," Dean said, sitting carefully on the edge of Sam's bed. From behind his back, he brought out a blue teddy bear with golden eyes, a halo and wings. "Do you remember this guy?"

Sam blinked. "Er, no," he answered.

"It's what really worried me when they took you," Dean didn't appear to have heard him, "Because you didn't have your bear with you, and you could never sleep if you didn't have Gabriel with you, and I was so worried, I thought, Sammy will never be able to get to sleep if he doesn't have Gabriel, and, and, when you didn't come back, and they couldn't find you, I thought, at least I can keep your bear safe, for when you come back..." Dean was crying again, clutching the blue teddy. "They looked for you, they really did, and I did too, when I got older, but they made you disappear... Oh, Sammy, I'm so glad you're back!"

"Urk!" went Sam, trapped in another hug from his brother, with the bear squashed between them. "Er, I missed you too. Bro."

"You did?" Dean's face lit up. "I thought you'd have forgotten me. I bet they wanted you to forget. Oh, there's so much to tell you... shit," he pulled himself up, "You're supposed to be resting."

"No, it's okay," Sam told him. He wasn't in any apparent immediate danger, not unless you counted the possibility of being smothered by an emotionally expressive big brother who hugged with extreme prejudice, so he wanted to get as much information about his situation as he could. Although an angel teddy bear named Gabriel veered dangerously close to too much information.

"No it's not," Dean insisted, tucking the bear in beside him. "There," he said with satisfaction, "You'll be able to get some sleep now."

"If my head doesn't explode first," muttered Sam. Whatever was going in, it was messing with his brain as much as the concussion. He wouldn't be surprised if it refused to talk to him for a week.

Dean was suddenly hovering anxiously. "What's wrong?" he asked. "You need more pills? Are you too hot? Do you need another blanket? Are you hungry?"

"It's fine, Dean," humphed Sam, "I'm just... tired."

"Doc said you would be," nodded Dean. "Tell you what, I'll read to you!"

_Make it a fortnight,_ griped his brain, _You're on your own, goodnight..._

"Er, that really won't be necessary," he suggested.

"Are you kidding? You used to love this!" Dean enthused, selecting a book from a shelf. "Aha, I'll bet you remember this, it was one of your favourites! And anybody who spends all day in a library has got to be nerd enough to still like it. So, get comfy, guys." He settled himself in a chair, and cleared his throat, opening the book. "Ahem. In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell..."

Sam let Dean's reading wash over him. His injuries felt real enough; this could all still be a hallucination, but precipitated by... what? Getting hit in the head? No, wait, he was sure that Dean had hit him. Some sort of other scenario, then? An alternative history? He'd been in the library, then come out and Dean had hit him. So, something had happened between the library and the car. Or something had happened while he was in the library. What had he been doing? Research. Disappearing people. Archived newspapers. A family, playing in the park. Moira the librarian. Hot chocolate. Cookies. From Moira. Moira Parker. Moira Parker. Why did that name niggle at his brain?

_I'm not talking to you, _his brain huffed sullenly,_ leave a frigging note, and I'll ponder it later._

He'd watched the family in the park, thinking about how ordinary they looked, how normal...

_Nuh-uh_, insisted his brain, crossing its neurons.

Moira. Parker. The words meant something.

_La la la la la la la la la la la la not listening_, insisted his brain.

He must've dozed off then, because he found himself waking up later, with the bedclothes tucked around him, and he totally was _not _cuddling the bear. He heard the voices outside the room, and his breath caught when he recognised one of them.

"Where is he?" a male voice demanded anxiously. "Where's my boy?"

"John, he's asleep," Sam heard Crowley say. "He's already been traumatised, he's concussed, and he should rest. This is a lot for him to take in."

John in this reality apparently lacked patience just like the one he'd grown up with, because the door was thrown open, and although Sam had been preparing himself for it, it was still a shock.

"Dad?" he asked tentatively.

The stubbled face went from disbelief to a broad smile. "Sam," his Dad answered.

"Where is he? Where's my baby?" demanded another voice, and John nearly stumbled as he was pushed aside. "Sam? Sam!"

She was older than the photos he'd seen, but undeniably, it was her.

She came at him so fast, Sam found himself desperately hoping that Crowley was right, and his mother wasn't a vampire.

* * *

><p>Shhhh, it's all right little bunny, the Denizens will hide you...<p>

Reviews are the Fluffy Reassuring Childhood Teddy Bear in the Bed Of Life!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_There are worse ways to expire,_ suggested Sam's brain,_ Than being smothered by the soft and yielding chest of a woman who loves you. Granted, it's your mother, but for a Hunter, the death thing is usually a lot more bloody and painful, if somewhat less embarrassing._

I thought you weren't talking to me for a fortnight, Sam accused it.

_I've decided to vacation at home,_ his brain informed him, _Because this whole alternative reality thing is kind of interesting, and I am wondering how we got here – and so far, it's not actually unpleasant. Kinda nice, really, the whole family thing. But I reserve the right to head for the Bahamas if it starts to get too freaky. Now, why don't you just enjoy getting hugged by your Mom._

I hate you when you're concussed, Sam told his brain, but taking its advice anyway.

"My baby, my baby," Mary repeated into his hair, "My baby is home."

"Hey Mom," he wheezed, carefully returning her hug.

"Let the boy breathe, Mary," John instructed, his voice rough as he fought back his own tears, "We don't want to lose him again." He put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "It's good to see you again, son," he said quietly. "You're sure?" he turned to Ruby, "You're sure it's him?"

"I'm absolutely certain," smiled Ruby, "I know what Winchester tastes like."

"If Ruby says it's him, it's him," Mary announced firmly, "I'd back her tastebuds against a werewolf's nose any day." Pulling back to look at Sam, she offered him a hopeful smile. "Do you remember us at all, Sam?" she asked, "Any of us? You were so young when they took you..."

"You look... older," he blurted, settling for a half-truth; she had been much younger in the few photos he'd ever seen. "And Dean's... bigger." That drew a grin from his brother. "But he's still bossy." That made everyone laugh.

"He remembers Doc, too," Ruby added. "Dean told me about the time when he had to have stitches in his leg."

John started to laugh. "You remember that?" he asked. "Oh, God, I know I won't forget it in a hurry. Doctor Crowley, the asshat demon." Crowley, who had trailed in discreetly, rolled his eyes. "You tormented the poor man. You put salt in his tea, you tried to draw demon traps on his car..."

"With my most expensive lipstick!" Mary wiped her eyes, and laughed. "And you wanted to learn the exorcism rite, because you were convinced it would get rid of him! And then he was the one who wrote it down for you!"

"He was only five years old, Mary," chided Doc Crowley gently, "At that age, a child can't necessarily understand that the chap who rehearses you in your exorcism and corrects your pronunciation is unlikely to be a demon. You had a real aptitude for it, Sam," he smiled. "You spoke it almost as well as English."

"Godfather's pet," grinned Dean. Ruby whacked him in the arm.

"He was using the subjunctive correctly when you were still struggling with the passive voice," Crowley reminded him.

"Oh, God," Mary interrupted, "Do you remember the time he told Old Man Singer in Latin to go and kill himself with a spoon? I don't think I'd ever seen the old bastard speechless before."

"Te interfice cum cochleare," translated Sam without thinking.

His family cooed and gushed as though he was a small child who'd just managed to take a few faltering, unassisted steps before falling awkwardly onto his ass and dribbling on the rug.

"He's still got it!" declared Mary triumphantly. "Did you keep it up at school, Sam? Did you remember any of it?"

"Uh, yeah," he replied warily. Vampires, demons, werewolves – the Winchester family he found himself 'reunited' with were clearly well acquainted with the supernatural, even if Crowley was somehow a human doctor. And if he'd been taught Latin as a young child, and tried to exorcise Crowley after the suturing incident, there was a good chance that he'd been brought up to be aware of it as well. Had it been some incident during a Hunt that apparently saw him removed by Child Protection Services workers? "I, uh, thought it might be useful. Did a couple of semesters at college."

"You went to college?" asked Mary.

Sam was used to having to invent 'normal life' back stories, and including as much truth as possible made it easier to keep his story straight. "Yeah. I got a full scholarship to Stanford. Pre-law."

His family gasped and made noises of surprised delight, and John smiled so widely that the top of his head was in danger of falling off.

"You hear that, Mary?" he beamed, clapping Sam on the shoulder again, "Our boy went to Stanford! A full ride! I always knew he was smart! Didn't I always say he was smart? Oh, God, Sam," John took his turn at trying to suffocate Sam with a hug, "I'm so proud of you, we're all so proud of you, and so glad you're back home." He pulled back. "How did you do on the LSAT?" he asked. "Did you go on to do Law? Where did you enrol? Are you still studying? No you must be finished by now..."

"John," Crowley interrupted, "Might I remind you, all of you, of just what this boy has been through in the last several hours? The only reason his head's not spinning around and threatening to get airborne is that it's attached to the rest of him via his spine. Look at him! He's on the verge of going into shock..." John looked apologetic, and backed off. "He's back," Crowley went on, "And he's not going to evaporate when you're not looking. He will have lots of questions for you, too, and you can interrogate each other, later, just as soon as he has had some rest, and some food, and some time to recover and adjust." He frowned. "If you don't give him some peace, I shall be forced to take drastic measures; I shall set my dog to watch his door, and keep you all at bay."

"Oh, not the hellhound," groaned Mary, "That critter marks up the floors, Doc..."

"Hellhound?" gulped Sam.

"Indeed," smiled Crowley. "Gedda! Gedda! Where are you, my darling?"

Sam blinked in bemusement as an elderly toy poodle made its way into the room. It glared at him, growled, yawned, and farted.

"That animal is a public nuisance, Doc," John shook his head, while Mary flapped a hand and Dean theatrically gasped and held his nose.

"She's lovesy-wuvsy, and I don't care what you think," Crowley said amiably, picking the dog up. "Now, leave Sam be, or I shall squeeze her and make her do it again."

"I'll make you some tomato rice soup," Mary told Sam, putting a hand to his face. "I'm just glad you're back, Sam," she smiled. "All I ever wanted was to see my baby again."

Sam found himself taking hold of her hand. "I'm glad to see you too, Mom," he said hesitantly, as if tasting the word.

"Out!" threatened Crowley. "I have an elderly dog with an excitable bowel, and I know how to use it!"

"That's really evil, Doc," humphed John, looking thoughtful. "Are you sure you're not a demon?" he asked. "The kid's damned smart, after all. And you do own a hellhound..."

"I'm squeezing! I'm squeezing!" threatened Crowley.

"We're going, we're going," said Mary reluctantly, "But not far. We'll be right outside, Sam, you just call if you need anything. Are you all right, honey?" she asked anxiously.

"I'm... it's just a lot to take in," Sam conceded, "And my head does hurt."

"I'll get you something a little stronger," Crowley promised, following John and Mary out.

"And I'll keep reading," Dean stated. "Nobody reads bedtime stories as awesomely as me."

"Had it occurred to you that you may in fact be so incredibly boring that nobody can stay awake while you run off at the mouth?" suggested Sam, falling into the usual pattern of snark he shared with his brother.

"Never. Now take your pills, and lie down and shut up, or I'll sing."

"Fine," muttered Sam, afraid that Dean's singing in this reality would be as bad as it was in his own, "Anything but that."

"Okay. So, where were we? Rivendell. Right. Elf chicks are hot, but the guys are all totally gay..."

He'd have to play along until his brain started co-operating, Sam decided. If there was something weird going on... back there, where he'd been in the library, he'd have to rely on his brother to find him. If it was something that had happened to him, he'd have to work it out himself. He was supposedly just reunited with the family that had lost him to CPS when he was a young child, so they'd expect him to have forgotten a lot, and have lots of questions.

And if he was honest, the idea of playing along in some happy family alternative universe for a while really didn't sound that bad. In fact, it was kind of... nice. Being hugged by his mother, and having his father beam proudly at him, even if he couldn't think of them as real, it was...

Mentally, he shook himself. Right now, he'd listen to the story, and wait for his head to stop hurting. And eat the tomato rice soup. Dean had always said that Mom made it better than he could. If he was going to have some sort of AU experience, he might as well as enjoy the catering.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

He fell asleep again, and awoke later to a tale that J.R.R. Tolkien never wrote in the world he was born into.

"...So Bilbo fetched a step-ladder, and said to Elrond, 'Okay, you pointy-eared smartass, now say that again', and Elrond said, 'I said, if I find out you banged my daughter, I will cut off your dick and shove it up your own ass, then Bilbo climbed the stepladder and kicked Elrond in the nuts, then Gandalf said, 'Dafuq, guys?', and they said 'Fuck off, you old fairy,' so Gandalf bend over and a magical semi-automatic rainbow shot out of his ass, and he yelled 'Take that, you homophobic assholes!' Then all dwarves and the female elves dived for cover, but the male elves started shooting at Bilbo too, because they were all totally gay and on Gandalf's side, and the female elves were all like, "Don't hurt him! Don't hurt him! He's the only straight guy we've had around here for hundreds of years!', but there were rainbows going off all over the place, and rampaging unicorns, and they shoot rainbows out of their asses, too, so Bilbo hid under a table, and he stabbed Gandalf in the shin with a fork, and the dwarves came out and started hacking into the unicorns with their axes, so the unicorns stampeded, and Bilbo made a run for it, then the female elves stampeded, and the dwarves were like 'Fuck that shit, bitches are crazy', and then they went looking for a bar, meanwhile Elrond and Gandalf were all set to settle their differences in a karaoke show-down..."

"I'm pretty sure there was never any mention of karaoke at Rivendell," Sam told Dean, pausing to yawn, "And there was never any insinuation that Gandalf was gay."

"I was just testing to see if you were paying attention," replied Dean, shutting the book. "And Sam and Frodo were definitely more than just friends."

"That's not until The Lord Of The Rings," Sam reminded him, "And there was never any subtext suggesting that."

"Huh. Just my luck my long lost baby bro turns out to be a smartass college boy," Dean humphed. "So," he went on, "How you doing?"

"I keep waiting to wake up and find out that I've been dreaming," Sam answered honestly enough. "It's just... you, and Dad, and Mom, and, er, Doc. It's all just..."

_Too close to being like an actual family to comprehend?_ suggested his brain. _Unbelievably ordinary? Bemusingly apparently-fuctional-and-happy-if-ever-so-slightly-not-normal?_

"Oh, it's real, all right," Dean grinned and ruffled his hair carefully. "I see you didn't get any fonder of haircuts as you got older."

"When did you get fond of vampires?" Sam asked abruptly.

"Ah. Ruby." Sam had expected a brusque brush-off, but Dean sighed heavily, and ran a hand through his hair. "It's... complicated."

"She's a... vampire," Sam snapped, biting down on the word _demon_ as it tried to force its way out.

"I don't expect you to understand, not right away," Dean said plaintively, "But... she's the one, bro, she is the one. For me. I can't explain it, she just... is. She's funny, she's sassy, she doesn't take crap from anybody – especially me – and she's a great cook..."

"You start telling me how good she is in bed, I will hit you," muttered Sam.

To his astonishment, Dean blushed. "Some things were not meant to be shared, Sam," he smiled. "But Mom and Dad love her, and... just, please, give it some time. Get to know her, before you decide you want to cut her head off. Please?"

_Hey, _Sam's brain complained, _He's using our Puppy-Dog Eyes! That's plagiarism, that is!_

"Okay," Sam agreed, "I can do that. I mean, I'm going to need some time to get used to..." he waved a hand helplessly.

"Aren't we all," Dean grinned again, as the door opened and Ruby came in.

"Two bowls of tomato rice soup," she announced, "And your mother says there's plenty left if you're still hungry. I brought one in for you, Dean, because otherwise I just know you'll stare at your brother while he eats like you're a starving dog." She put the tray down for him. "Can I get you anything else, Sam?" she asked.

_Besides a machete?_ suggested his brain. Sam bit down on the request before it got out.

"No, this looks great. Uh, thanks. And tell Mom I said thanks," he stumbled, managing a smile. Ruby smiled back, and left again.

"Mmmmm, this is great," Dean hummed happily as he started on his soup. "I wonder, if I whack you in the head regularly, whether she'd make it more often?"

"I could whack you in the head," offered Sam, "Fewer moving parts in there."

"Oh, I get it," Dean feigned outrage, "College boy's brain is too valuable to sacrifice a few neurons to get Mom's soup, is that it?"

"Absolutely," confirmed Sam, "At least hitting your head won't damage anything important."

"I've had my baby bro back less than a day, and he's insulting me already," Dean sighed melodramatically. "But that's all right, because that's what big brothers are for. Without complaint, I will let you whack me in the head, further damaging what inferior brain matter I have, for the greater good, for a higher cause."

"You will endure pain and suffering," Sam agreed, tasting the soup. "Oh, but that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make, this is good."

"Write me a pithy epitaph, Sam," Dean sighed wistfully, "When I finally take one whack too many, write me something that reflects the lengths I was prepared to go to, to get Sammy what he wanted."

Sam thought for a moment. "Here lies Dean, the willing dupe, who died to get his brother soup," he intoned.

"That'll do," Dean shrugged.

They ate in silence for a while, then Sam asked, "Dean... what happened? I mean, how did I... how did I get taken away?"

Dean put his spoon down slowly. "What do you remember, Sam?" he asked. "And what did they tell you?"

"Not a lot," Sam answered. "And, they told me... that I'd be better off without you." It was a gamble, but probably covered whatever had happened. "I remembered some stuff about Hunting," he added.

"Not likely you'd forget that," Dean smiled briefly, but then his expression became sad. "Doc said... he said that they might've tried to get you to forget, or that you might've forgotten, as a sort of self-defence mechanism thing your mind can do."

_If I really had any self-defence capability, I'd have upped and left you a long time ago, _Sam's brain cheerfully informed him. He told it to shut up.

"They sent me to... therapists," Sam improvised carefully. "They told me I should move on, and try to live a normal life."

"Did you?" Dean asked him, almost inaudibly.

Sam was silent. "I tried," he replied, "But... it didn't work out. It wasn't... me. I was on a Hunt, when you... found me."

Dean's face lit up. "Oh, Mom will be so proud to hear that!" he declared, "It'll make her day! You turned out to be a Hunter, after all!"

"So, does our family Hunt?" Sam asked.

Dean's expression became guarded. "When we have to, yeah," he said.

"What about the rest of the time?" Sam pressed, "What do you do? Dad... he was a mechanic, wasn't he? After he came out of the Marines?"

"Well, yeah, but..." Dean ran a hand through his hair again. "Maybe this should wait until you're feeling better."

"Dean, I really want to know," Sam told him, a little surprised to find out that he really did want to know what this Winchester family did. "Come on, tell me."

"Okay. Okay. But first, you have to promise me that you won't do anything... stupid. Like... don't leave us again, Sammy," Dean begged, "It'd kill Mom if you left, it'd kill me, please tell me you'll stay with us..."

"Of course I'll stay," Sam reassured him – after all, where was he going to go, anyway? – "You're my family! But... I need to know." He deployed the Puppy-Dog Eyes himself, and saw Dean's hesitancy melt.

"Okay, then," Dean smiled a little, "I can give you the broad picture, and we can fill in details when you're up and around. If I do anything to sabotage your recovery and you're not fit enough to come to Thanksgiving, Mom will break my leg.."

"Dean," chided Sam, recognising a diversion tactic when he saw one.

"Right, right," Dean raised a hand in defeat, then took a deep breath. "I hope you remember him, because he'll be tickled pink to see you again. Dad... all of us really... Sam, we work for Bobby Singer."

* * *

><p>Gasp! Who will pop up next in a completely version? I'm sure you'll all want Cas in there somewhere. Something tells me you lot won't be satisfied with a Teddy Bear named after him.<p>

Reviews are the Delicious Soup Brought To You in the Snuggly Comfy Bed Of Life!


	6. Chapter 6

I'm pretty sure that the tomato rice soup thing is canon - didn't Dean tell Mary about it in one of the time-travelling episodes to prove that he was who he said he was? Don't see the attraction, myself - give me chicken noodle.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

"Bobby?" Sam repeated, unable to keep a smile from creeping across his face. "You work for Bobby Singer? As in, grumpy old man, hat nailed to his head, calls people idjits? Presides over Singer Salvage in South Dakota as a cover for his, er, main business? That Bobby?"

Dean was delighted to by Sam's apparent fond recall. "You remember Bobby?" he smiled, "Oh, man, he will be totally over the moon! You were always his favourite, you know," Dean told him, "When you were little, you used to call him Unca Bumbee, and the smile went twice around his head. And one time, you wanted his attention, but he was busy, and you crawled under his desk and set fire to one of his shoes..."

"I did?" Sam's eyes bugged in horror.

"Absolutely!" Dean grinned.

"Oh," Sam said in a small voice. "I, er, guess I wasn't his favourite after that," he added sheepishly.

"Are you kidding?" Dean chuckled. "Old Man Singer nearly bust a gut laughing! Dad wasn't so impressed, though – you'd stolen his lighter to do it – and Mom was livid..."

"Oh, God, they must've wanted to strangle me," groaned Sam.

"Uh-huh," grinned Dean. "Dad felt you lift his Zippo, and you used gun solvent as your accelerant – that stuff stinks! Mom pointed out that there was a half-full bottle of denatured alcohol under the sink, which would've been a much better choice. Dad had you practising your pocket picking on everybody for the rest of the day, and Mom sent you to torch one of the rustbuckets in the yard; when she said that if you left so much as half a footprint of evidence for her to find you wouldn't get any dinner, I thought you were going to cry! Bobby went out with you, of course, claiming practically-uncle's teaching privilege..."

"Er, I don't remember that," Sam gulped.

"It's probably those damned headfuckers they sent you to," muttered Dean murderously. "They got no right to try to get anyone to forget having fun as a kid, no right..."

_Sounds like aspects of your childhood were just as screwy in this reality,_ Sam's brain chimed in, _It must be some universal constant that's the same everywhere: the mass of an electron, the speed of light, the screwiness of a Winchester childhood. _

"Sam?" he heard his mother say tentatively. "Can I come in?"

"Hey Mom," Dean smiled at her, "He remembers Bobby! I was just telling him about the time he set Bobby's shoe on fire."

Mary's eyes lit up in recollection. "Oh, God," she smiled, "And I sent you out to practise on a car in the yard – you were so worried about getting it right. Then in the end, you did five of them, one after the other! Absolutely perfectly! Your Dad and I were so proud of you! Oh, Bobby will be so happy to see you again." She sighed, entered the room, and sat on the edge of his bed. "How are you feeling, honey?" she asked, all maternal concern.

"Uh, as bit... disoriented," Sam told her, completely truthfully.

_Hey, don't blame me_, his brain muttered, _This shit is so weird, I couldn't make it up – since when was your Dad proud of anything you did?_ Sam told it to shut up.

"You're supposed to be on bed rest, but Doc says you can get up for a little while tomorrow," Mary told him, "If you're feeling up to it. We're planning to go to Bobby's for Thanksgiving this year, so we have to get you well enough to go!"

"I'll stay with Sam if he's not up to it," Dean stated loyally.

"Don't be silly," Mary slapped him playfully, "We'll go as a family! Of course he'll be well enough! We'll look after you, sweetie," she promised Sam, "And Bobby will be so glad to see you! Some decent home cooking will help no end."

"Ah, Mom's tomato rice soup," beamed Dean, "A universal cure-all, for everything from a seized engine to bubonic plague."

"I thought that was JD," Sam commented unthinkingly. He was confused to see Dean's face turn pink.

"Your brother doesn't drink that," Mary said smoothly, putting a motherly hand on Dean's neck. "He prefers to steer away from the harder stuff, don't you?"

"I, uh, can't hold it," Dean admitted sheepishly to Sam. "If I drink it, I get kind of, well, silly, and annoying, and I do... stuff..."

"Stuff?" echoed Sam incredulously.

"Er, well," Dean swallowed nervously, "I was drinking it after we finished a job, years back now, you know, celebrating, job's done, we're all still alive, and I, uh..." he paused, embarrassed. "I drank more than was probably sensible, and I, well, I pulled off my shirt, and danced on a table. And I er, I, I... propositioned a young lady."

"Oh. Oh. Well, it's... good that you know your limit," Sam nodded understandingly. "She slapped you, huh?" he added sympathetically.

"Worse," whispered Dean, "She accepted. It was terrible. I was so drunk, I went back to her place, and, and, and... she had black sheets on the bed," he winced, turning red to his ears, "Black sheets! And... things... she wanted me to, to..." he ground to a halt, too mortified by the memory to go on.

"That was a long time ago, Dean," Mary reassured her eldest, "And before you met Ruby." Dean brightened up at that thought. "So, Sam, would you like some more soup before bedtime? Some French toast with it? Ruby makes the best French toast."

"Uh, yeah, that'd be great," Sam replied, staring dubiously at his brother. _If we see 'Doc' wandering about wearing a scarf indoors, we'll know he is actually a demon_, declared his brain, _Because Hell is officially freezing over._

"We'll get on it right away, sweetheart," Mary said, patting him on the knee then giving him a quick hug. "You just rest, and get better."

"You all really work for Bobby?" Sam asked.

"Of course, sweetie," she answered, "Although he's more like family than a boss. He's been so very good to us, Sam. He was so upset when you were taken, you'd think you were his own blood. He moved heaven and earth trying to get you back to us... but that's for later," she added firmly, "Right now, just rest."

"I'll get on with reading the bedtime story," affirmed Dean, picking up the book. "Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. The big karaoke showdown. So, Elrond thought that he had it in the bag when the crowd went wild for his version of 'Stinkfist', but then after Gandalf belted out 'I Will Survive', he knew he'd been beaten. Then, the dwarves stopped hacking up the unicorns and stormed the stage, and did a rendtion of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' that was so amazing that the sound travelled into outer space, and the next thing they knew, this spaceship landed on Rivendell, and squashed all the male elves, and these little green guys came goose-stepping out of the spaceship and Elrond said 'Who are you?' and they said 'We are the Alien Nazis From Outer Space – we heard you singing. Now, take us to... your lieder'! Ha ha ha! Get it?"

"Very droll, Dean," Sam smiled and let the bemusement wash over him. Human Crowley. Proud parents. A big brother who was shy about women, couldn't hold hard liquor, but could make honest-to-Cas puns. In another language. He wondered if it was 'his' talent for arson that had precipitated his removal from his family.

Maybe he could do some research at Bobby's, tell them he wanted to finish the Hunt he'd been on. If his family still Hunted, they'd understand that. If he got to stay around for a family Thanksgiving, something he'd missed as a kid – well, if he was honest, something he'd missed, full stop – that would be a bonus.

_So, the idea of actually going to a family Thanksgiving is not a motivating factor here, then,_ acknowledged his brain, _Nope, not at all, no siree, just a consequence of trying to figure out what's going on. _

"... So Elrond looked at the map, and said, 'This is so last century, but I have a really cool GPS that you can use, it's programmed with Darth Vader's voice and it has the locations of dragons, goblins and public conveniences programmed into it'..." Dean kept 'reading' until he saw his brother's eyes droop closed. "Are you still awake, Sam?" he asked softly.

"Shut up, you wrinkly grey fucker," muttered Sam in his sleep.

Dean put down the book, and left the room quietly. But not before he'd taken a picture; Sam was totally cuddling Gabriel the bear.

Mass of the electron, speed of light, propensity of Winchester brothers to take embarrassing pictures of each other; some things were just universal constants.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"Well, look what the cat dragged in. Or out," grinned John over the top of the newspaper, as Dean hovered anxiously while Sam made his way slowly into the kitchen the next morning.

"He said he wanted to get up," Dean announced in a worried tone, "He wouldn't stay in bed!"

"How are you feeling, Sam?" his mother reached up to hug him and peck him on the cheek. "Not dizzy?" She put a hand to his forehead, and Sam found himself blushing at the attention, and muttering that he was fine.

"How about hungry?" Ruby asked, standing up, "There's plenty of pancake batter left."

"Er, you don't have to..." Sam started.

"Well, of course I don't _have_ to," she teased him, "But I'm going to! You want syrup?"

"He loved chocolate chips when he was little," beamed Dean fondly.

"Chocolate chips it is, then," Ruby indicated finally. "Now, go sit down. My pancakes are so much better than Dean's, you'll never want him to cook for you again!"

"There's nothing wrong with my cooking!" declared Dean.

"She didn't say there was," Mary pointed out. "She just said that hers is better than yours. Which it is."

"Whose side are you on here, Mom?" asked Dean plaintively.

Mary cocked an eyebrow at him. "Do you really have to ask?" she replied.

"My advice, boys, is not to fuck with The Sisterhood," John nodded sagely, "They network, and they know where you live. Just say, 'Yes dear', or you will find all your underwear triple-starched, or your favourite weapon mysteriously disappeared, or possibly both."

"There was that _incident_ in North Carolina, when you were eleven," Mary said slyly.

"That doesn't count!" declared Dean in mock outrage, "I was acting under instructions."

"Your 'instructions' were to help your brother torch the place," his mother reminded him, "Not to burn it down making S'mores in the oven."

"Hey, how was I supposed to know that marshmallows could burn so well?" demanded Dean. "And a couple of kids making S'mores was a great cover story!"

"You brother would've known, even at that age. He was the smart one, remember?" John grinned at his boys. "And I had to go back, and fire the basement," he grumbled at Dean. "It's just a mercy that your brother was able to pull off his distressed sobbing child act so brilliantly when the Emergency Services arrived." He smiled at Sam. "You saved that damned job, you know," he added.

"Everybody's a critic," sighed Dean. "Can I have pancakes too?" he asked hopefully.

"Only once you concede that mine are better than yours," Ruby smiled angelically.

"Hey, I do damned good pancakes!" Dean insisted.

"Dean," began his father evenly, "Do you really want to be walking funny for the next few days?"

Dean sighed again. "Yes, dear," he intoned obediently.

Mary reached up to pat him on the head. "We'll get you house-trained yet," she smiled fondly. "Now, go sit your brother down on the sofa. Sam, you look like you're going to fall over."

"I'm fine," Sam replied faintly. He'd watched the conversation in the kitchen with a strange sense of disbelief. His family, teasing each other over the breakfast table. It was so...so close to_ normal_, it was making his head spin.

_Well, apart from the bit about a seven-year-old being set to arson, anyway_, his brain pointed out. _Otherwise, welcome to Stepford II, where Roald Dahl and Stephen King tried their hands at alternative careers as town planners. Which ones do you think are real people, and which ones are the robots? _

He found himself thinking that maybe if his family had been like this, it wouldn't have been so bad. Possible robot involvement notwithstanding.

"No you're not," countered John, getting up to put a hand on Sam's arm. "You get that from your mother. She's just as bad. 'I'm fine', she says, with one arm dislocated and one leg practically shot off, 'I'm fine, just get me a Band-Aid and some antiseptic, then I'll finish the ironing'..." Mary swatted him on the butt with the newspaper as he moved past.

John steered Sam into the living room, and installed his son on the sofa, while Dean fetched cushions and a blanket. "There you go, bro," he said, giving a pillow a final fluff, "Four brand new walls to look at!"

Ruby brought his breakfast in, along with pills and tea. "Doc said you have to take them," she relayed, "There were threats of dog flatulence."

"Are you sure that thing isn't an actual Hellhound, Dad?" asked Dean. "It smells sulphurous enough."

"Yeah, I wondered about that," nodded John. "I fed her a piece of liver, once, stuffed with iron shot, dunked in holy water, and sprinkled with salt and goofer dust."

"Well?" asked Dean. "What happened?"

"The next time the damned thing farted, it shot me in the ankle," deadpanned John. Dean groaned, and facepalmed. "Led with your chin on that one, Ace," John smirked.

"I think I'm beginning to understand why some people divorce their parents," grumbled Dean.

"I think I'm beginning to understand why some people sell their children into slavery," countered John mildly.

"You better be nice to me," warned Dean, "Because as your firstborn, I'm the one who will choose your nursing home."

"I wonder if I could sell you to a brothel in Eastern Europe," mused John.

Ruby laughed, while Dean muttered mutinously. "Cockroaches," he threatened, "I'm going to put you somewhere that has cockroaches in the rooms, the bedding, and the food."

"Should be just like your cooking, then," John shrugged.

After breakfast, Dean fluttered nervously around Sam like, as Crowley had described him, an anxious helicopter, as Mary joined them. "Dean, give your brother some peace," suggested John gently. "I suspect he'll have some questions of his own. Are you feeling up to it, son?"

"Yeah, sure," replied Sam.

"There's no need to rush this, honey," Mary reassured him.

"It's okay, Mom," Sam told her, "Dad's right, there are a lot of things I want to know. It's just... I don't even know where to start," he said. "I don't remember... a lot."

"Damned headfuckers," muttered Dean.

"Can you tell me about... you?" Sam suggested. "All of you. Dean said you Hunt, sometimes. I remembered things from that. You raised me knowing about the supernatural. But...what you do, how you know Bobby, how... how I got taken away, I want to know."

John sighed heavily. "It's a long story," he stated. "You didn't know all of it before we lost you. We were waiting until you were older, old enough to understand it, but, well, we never got a chance to tell you..."

"It's probably best if we start right at the beginning," Mary said. "And it starts before either of you were born. To be exact, ten years before you were born, Sam."

* * *

><p>So, we have requests for Cas (naturally) and Jimi (since this is the Jimiverse). If Jimi pops up he will NOT be a Chihuahua. Not sure if there will be a place for werewolves. We shall see where the bunny goes.<p>

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Fluffing Your Pillow For You On The Sofa Of Life!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Mary Campbell came from a Hunting family. She was good at it. She didn't just have an aptitude for it, she worked hard at it. And when she was finally old enough to accompany her father on Hunts, she enjoyed it.

John Winchester came from a line of mechanics. When he joined the Marines, he was good at it. He didn't just have an aptitude for it, he worked hard at it. And when he was deployed to Vietnam, he enjoyed it.

As Mary grew into a young woman, her parents harboured concerns about her... ebullience.

As John's first tour progressed, his NCOs harboured concerns about his... enthusiasm.

Neither of them had any time for such concerns. There was a war to be fought, and there was no place for... squeamishness. In their own ways, they both chafed at authority, conforming but resentful, knowing that the job could be done more... efficiently, if they were allowed to do it their way. But, there was a job to do, and butting heads with the wrong people wouldn't achieve anything. So, they got on with it. And enjoyed getting on with it.

It was Deanna Campbell who wanted her only child to get out of the life. She wanted her daughter to have a normal life, a husband, a home, a family. She wanted to be a grandmother. Even as Mary resented what she thought of as her father's cautious, conservative ways, she was, at heart, a good girl, who listened to her family, because family was important. She dated occasionally, just to keep her mother happy.

It was an old-school, no-nonsense sergeant who had a quiet word with John after his second tour; he had been slated for a psych evaluation after his psych evaluation – one lone headshrinker was concerned that he wasn't traumatised enough, and wasn't that just the craziest shit? – and suggested that an effort to find some sort of private life out of uniform might just be enough to get that hippy drippy moron off his case, just tell the clueless asshole in the white coat about unburdening yourself to your girlfriend, dickheads like Dr Dipshit just love to hear stuff like that. So John dated occasionally, because he knew good advice when he heard it.

When John and Many met, therefore, it was a date of convenience, undertaken only for the purpose of keeping other people happy. Perhaps they sensed that in each other; it made the situation easier, once that was established. We might as well as go out and make a show of it, John shrugged. Mary, all too aware of her mother watching through the curtain, agreed. So they went to the movies, and had a good enough time.

It wasn't until they were walking back to John's car and a couple of deadbeats slunk out of an alley and followed them that they really began to enjoy themselves.

John actually laughed when the sneering punks had pulled switchblades. Fucking fruit knives, he muttered, shaking his head sadly as his arm shot out to smack the first idiot's head against the wall with a satisfying splat. He turned to deal with the second one, and was stunned to see Mary carefully withdrawing her own knife from his ribs. I'm not sure whether to be amused or insulted, she sniffed, carefully wiping the blade on her victim's shirt then rifling his pockets with speedy efficiency.

There was a moment of stunned silence and... recognition. Then they smiled at each other.

John cleared his throat, and extended an elbow. Mary Campbell, he said, Would you like to get something to eat?

Mary took his arm. I would love to do that, John Winchester, she replied. The walked arm in arm back to his car.

They found a small, quiet place that did very good burgers. And they talked. They were amazed to discover exactly how much they had in common.

John told her about his tours, and she sat entranced, smiling, and genuinely laughing in all the right places. He'd never met anybody he could talk to so easily, without having to guard his tongue closely. In turn, he asked her how she'd come to learn to use a knife. She gave him an appraising look, then told him. He nodded; he'd seen things that suddenly made sense in the light of what she was telling him. She even gave him some tips on how to deal with angry ghosts and restless spirits, for which he was grateful – he was pretty sure he'd seen them, and he didn't want to be one of the guys shipped home to a facility with padded walls. Somehow, the idea that you could kill something that was already dead was... appealing.

Deanna Campbell beamed with hope as she watched the clean-cut young man and her daughter walk to the front door, smiling affectionately at each other as Mary reached up to peck him on the cheek. A short time later, Sergeant MacKenzie breathed a small sigh of relief when John started showing a picture of Mary in his wallet.

After that, it was only a matter of time. The people around them thought it must be a match made in Heaven. If there was any supernatural involvement, it was likely that such machinations originated a lot further south than that, but the end result was the same. They dated, and they fell in love.

It wasn't all plain sailing. A Hunter who was as efficient and ruthless as Mary was bound to have enemies, not all human. When a demon came after her, killing her parents and her boyfriend, she made a deal to get John back. She was devastated, but John hugged her tight, raging inwardly at what had upset his Mary so badly, and promised her: We'll deal with that yellow-eyed bastard if it's the last thing we do.

He had left the Marines – in the light of certain occurrences, he had left before he was discharged – and was working as a mechanic when he felt that the time was right. He went down on one knee, proffering a ring with an unusual setting: a modestly plain band with a red diamond set in it, rather than standing proud of the surface. She recognised the intent immediately: it would never catch on anything in a fight, and the setting would never show blood. Mary gasped and threw her arms around him and said yes.

The marriage was a happy one. And if being a housewife or a shit-kicking mechanic just wasn't enough for a couple who had wielded semi-automatic weaponry, and taken pride in the ability to wreak havoc with a well-edged knife, and known the primal joy of blood-letting against an enemy that wants you dead, their weekend 'hunting' trips provided an outlet for that frustration. The couple that slays together stays together, John announced, making Mary giggle like a girl. Their first child was conceived after they'd dealt with a particularly nasty group of ghouls.

Money was tight, and with a child on the way, it was only going to get worse. That was when Mary suggested that they might talk to Bobby Singer, who had been her father's go-to man for weapons. She'd met him a few times – he was a shrewd operator, an ex-Hunter, who knew talent when he saw it, and he'd actually offered her a job once, to her father's horror and firm opposition. So they headed for South Dakota, and met the man, who eyed them like a spider sitting in the middle of his web. As it happened, he had a job for a couple of people of John and Mary's skill set and mind set, and would offer them a trial, to see him in action.

Later, Singer had to admit himself impressed: the representatives of the Serbian asshole who'd crossed him hadn't taken the fresh young couple seriously. That had been their first mistake. The second had been trying to foist counterfeit bills onto them. The third and last had been pulling weapons.

The Winchesters didn't deal in warnings: a Hunter has no use for such things, and John laughed at the very idea of allowing someone another opportunity to kill him. They left behind half a dozen bodies, and no traces of their ever having been present other than the rounds in a couple of corpses, fired from their own guns. When Bobby discovered that they'd found his payment, and delivered every last dollar to him, he shook John's hand, and hugged Mary, and offered them employment if they wanted it.

By the time Dean came along, John was Bobby's capable fix-it man, and he was as besotted with their son as they were. Mary complained half-heartedly about having to be the 'bad parent', reinforcing discipline, while John played the 'good parent', indulging and doting on his boy. John started teaching him to throw a punch as soon as he was old enough to walk. When Mary found out, she laughed, and clapped, and cheered her son on. The day he was able to hit Daddy hard enough to blacken his eye, Bobby declared that celebration by ice-cream was in order, and smilingly shooed them away, Dean riding on John's shoulders, while Mary strutted with pride. When Dean decked the pre-schooler bully who was twice his size, and his bloodied opponent had required an ambulance to be called, John bought him his first BB gun, and Bobby told some business associates to go fuck 'emselves so he could spend an entire afternoon setting up cans for the youngster to shoot at.

When Mary was expecting again, it was hard to figure out which of 'her menfolk' was more excited, John, Dean or Bobby. Sometimes they would sit in the living room, and while she knitted baby clothes, the three of them would talk to her belly. Dean promised him – he was sure it would be a baby brother, because he'd dictated a letter to Santa Claus asking for the baby to be a boy, and Santa always brought him what he asked for – that he'd be the best big brother in the world, and teach Baby Winchester to throw a punch, and even share his precious BB, and he'd always look out for him. John told the baby how he'd teach him to drive, and to use and maintain any weapon that could draw blood, and to hustle when he had to. Bobby would roll his eyes, and call them idjits, telling the baby that he'd teach him to read, and follow a paper trail, and cover his tracks, and speak Latin properly, because God knows he wasn't going to get any decent practice at it with his father or brother, who sounded more like barbarians when they mangled Cicero's tongue mercilessly.

Mary would laugh and say that they sounded like the three strangest fairies granting wishes to a baby that she'd ever heard of.

Maybe it was their eagerness to meet him that brought Sam into the world earlier than expected, right in the middle of a fire fight with a bunch of Bobby's clients who'd decided that they'd rather just help themselves to his inventory than pay for the weapons he dealt in. Doc Crowley had been making a house call – John was recovering from a bullet wound, for which he had been endlessly teased by Mary – when the first window was shot out at exactly the same moment that Mary's waters broke. She wielded a gun along with the others until the third stage of labour and Doc Crowley's increasingly shrill insistence drove her to the bed.

Unknown to the adults, Dean, determined to save his Mom and his baby brother, took his BB and slipped out of the house. When one of the goons firing on the house saw him and froze in surprise, Dean shot him in the stomach and scuttled away before he could react. He made it to the kennels, where he let Bobby's dogs out.

The stuff of urban legend, Bobby Singer's dogs were massive mutts, part Pitbull, part Rottweiler, part Mastiff, part alligator, part chainsaw, and part Standard Poodle (he was adamant that the poodle blood made them smart, and that's what made them really dangerous). The huge, slavering animals headed silently for the would-be assassins, keeping them occupied for long enough that John and Bobby were able to come out and finish those that the dogs hadn't mauled fatally. They had just satisfied themselves that the threat was over when they heard a wail from the house; Sam had arrived.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Mary had it all: a husband who loved her and understood her, two beautiful baby boys, a boss who was more like a doting uncle, a happy home, and a job she loved. Her life was perfect. And she was determined to see that it stayed that way.

So when the yellow-eyed bastard showed up, ten years to the day after her deal, she was ready for him. He hadn't reckoned with the determination of a mother to keep her baby safe. Nor had he reckoned with a big brother of the calibre of Dean.

John and Mary put Dean to bed that night, after taking him to say goodnight to Sammy, but the kid wasn't stupid – he'd detected the air of anticipation between them, and noticed the nursery door being left wide open, so he had leaped out of bed to crack the door of his bedroom, pressing his eye to the gap to watch.

And yellow-eyes nearly made it. Might've done, too, if Dean hadn't been watching. His parents were first alerted by the outraged yell the boy let out, as he saw the stranger bend over Sammy's crib, as he run, full tilt, into the man, flailing with his fists, and biting him on the leg hard enough to draw blood.

"You little shit!" the demon had hissed, throwing Dean across the room, "I'll see you burn with your bitch of a mother..." then looking up to see John helping Dean up.

"Hey, you okay there, tiger?" John asked in concern. Dean rubbed his head, and nodded. "He's a mean man, isn't he?" he went on, scooping Dean up. He nodded to the intruder. "Of course, he's not actually a man, you know, he's a demon, and they're really mean."

"He's a idjit," declared Dean, putting his arms around his father's neck and glaring.

"He sure is," agreed Mary, sauntering into the room. "You're late, Azazel," she pouted.

The demon's smug smile flickered for just a moment. "Hello Mary," he answered, "I had no idea you were looking forward to seeing me."

"Oh, I've been looking forward to this for a long time," she nodded.

"So have I," grunted John. "Do you know how many demons we had to torture, just to get your name? It must've been dozens! Hundreds, even! She's dragged me back and forth, across the country, for years, rousting out your little minions. Oh, do you have any idea how many football games I've missed because of you?"

"Oh, put a sock in it, John," Mary said fondly, "You enjoyed it."

"Well, yeah," John admitted, "But it's the principle of the thing."

"Idjit! Idjit! Idjit!" giggled Dean.

"No, Dean," frowned John, "What do we say to demons?"

Dean's face crinkled adorably in thought for a minute, then he burst out "Christo!" Azazel flinched. Dean giggled again.

"Good boy!" praised Mary, as John ruffled Dean's hair.

"We have a deal, Mary," Azazel growled, "And I am here to collect." He reached down into the crib. Then jumped, and pulled his hand back as if he'd been stung.

"Not with the wards I've set, you don't," Mary smirked at him.

"Oh, and we had to torture more of them to get the intel to do that," relayed John gloomily. "Hundreds. Thousands even. All those weekends, all those matches..."

"Don't exaggerate, John," Mary rolled her eyes, "You should learn to program the video."

Azazel narrowed his eyes. "This isn't over," he snarled, before attempting unsuccessfully to smoke out of his meat-suit.

"Oh, that won't work, either," Mary noted smugly, "Devil's trap. Under the carpet."

"And after you were so insistent about me polishing the floorboards, too," humphed John. "Another weekend lost, because of you," he glared resentfully at the demon.

"You cannot keep me trapped here forever, in your son's room," Azazel growled.

"You know, you're absolutely right," Mary agreed. She nodded to John, who put Dean down, and picked up a vase of flowers.

"Hey buddy," he winked at Dean, "How'd you like to start a... water fight!"

Dean looked doubtful. "Mommy says we're not allowed to do that inside," he said in a small voice.

"Well, maybe just this once," wheedled John. "What do you say?" Dean nodded eagerly, and put his hands on top of John's. "Okay, ready? On three..."

"Three!" shouted Dean happily, as they sloshed the contents of the vase at the demon.

Azazel yowled as the holy water hit him. "Stupid bitch!" he grated out, "That won't kill me!"

"Nope," nodded Mary, "But this will." Taking advantage of his distraction, she darted in and buried an ornately carved knife between his ribs.

Azazel stared down at the hilt protruding from his chest. "It was a christening present," Mary told him, as he started to flicker with bright, sickly yellow light from within, "For Sam." She picked up the baby, who gurgled happily at his mother. "I'm just keeping it for him until he's old enough to learn to use it."

"This... shouldn't happen," the demon stuttered, disintegrating from within.

"Wow," breathed Dean, watching the light show with wide eyes, until John turned him away and held him close to shield him from the final burst of brightness. "That was cool!" he chirped, when all that was left was a dead man on the floor. "Is Sammy all right?" he asked anxiously.

"He sure is," Mary sighed with relief, bending down so that Dean could check for himself.

"You're safe now, Sammy," Dean told him, carefully taking his brother from Mommy's arms, "Because that's what we do to demons in this family!"

John and Mary beamed proudly.

Dean followed his father around as John put the demon's meat-suit in the garage – "Why does he smell funny, Daddy? Is he supposed to be crunchy? If we wait long enough, will he go mushy like the dead skunk at Uncle Bobby's place?" – but then he was allowed to have some ice-cream before going back to bed, and Mommy didn't even insist on him brushing his teeth again.

* * *

><p>Story alerts and updates on the main site listing are apparently playing up, according to the Help Desk forum. I'm choosing to believe that. *sniff sniff* (you may interpret that as me doing a bottom lip wibble waiting for reviews, or me trying to snort them off the screen in a pathetic attempt to get my fix.) Because reviews are the Adorable Demon-Annoying Weechesters in the Fanfic Of Life!<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Sam sat stunned, trying to take in what he'd just heard.

_Dude, WTF? _gurgled his brain.

"All right, that's enough for now," declared John, "The boy looks like he's about to pass out."

"No, no, I'm fine," Sam protested, "It's just a lot of information, you know?"

"Sam, honey, your father's right," Mary backed up her husband, "You're supposed to be resting and recovering."

Dean leaped up, and started arranging his blanket, fluffing his pillows and frowning unhappily. "Your face has gone almost white, Sam," he said anxiously. "You lie down again, right now." He leaped up and scuttled from the room.

"You're probably remembering things from your childhood," John nodded judiciously, "And having some sort of flashback episode."

"It's bound to be traumatising you, sweetie," his mother said, gently but firmly pushing him down onto the sofa, "So you just rest."

"No!" yelped Sam.

"Sam," John tried to suppress a smile and failed as he wagged a stern finger at his younger son, "I understand that you have been separated from us for a long time, but she is your mother, and you will do what she tells you."

"Yes, sir," replied Sam, making an effort not to humph, "It's just that, well, you can't tell me that much, leave me dangling, and expect me to rest!"

"Got him!" Dean returned, triumphantly brandishing Gabriel the teddy bear. "Now, he'll be fine," he declared with satisfaction. Sam lay helplessly as his big brother tucked the bear in beside him. "There, now he'll be able to settle."

"Uh, did you ever find out what a demon was doing in my nursery?" asked Sam, reluctantly taking hold of Gabriel the teddy bear, which made his brother beam dotingly.

"Oh, who knows why demons do what they do, honey," Mary smiled, "I made lots of enemies as a Hunter, I probably sent him back to Hell sometime."

"There was that angel, later," mused John, "You know, the one that tried to contact Dean? We did wonder if that was related."

"An angel?" Sam looked suitably surprised. "Really?"

"Oh, that," Dean gestured dismissively, "Yeah, he just walked in while I was retro-fitting some guns at Bobby's, and he was all, 'I am an Angel of the Lord, a warrior of Heaven', and he had these really cool wings, I just saw the shadows on the wall."

"Er, what happened?" Sam was almost afraid to ask.

"Oh, I threw rocks at him until he went away," shrugged Dean. "He hasn't been back."

"He needs something to eat," Mary decided, flapping a hand at Dean, who scrambled to obey. "If you eat something, then lie quietly, we'll talk some more, okay?" she wheedled, stroking his hair lovingly.

"Uh, sure, Mom," he replied uncertainly.

_I can't decide, _mused his brain,_ Whether this is kinda nice, or kinda scary. What do you think? Your amygdala is purring, but your neocortex is trying to run screaming. I'd call a vote, but your hippocampus won't listen to medical advice and lie down and what with the concussion, it's read the same line four times in a row and looks about ready to throw up..._

John and Mary shared some childhood memories they had of him while all manner of strange noises came from the kitchen. "You used to sit on my knee while I cleaned guns, or sharpened knives, from before you could walk," John reminisced fondly. "I'd put my hand out, and say, 'Swab!', and you'd slap one into my hand like a nurse in surgery. And you learned to sharpen a knife by watching; your mother came in and saw you when you were just a toddler, and I thought she'd scream the place down. 'John Winchester,' she yelled, 'If I find that you have given that knife to our baby son I will kill you myself!' "

"I would have, too," humphed Mary. "He was eyeing off my A2 boot knives, and you can ruin blades like that if you don't know what you're doing."

"So you learned on plastic cutlery," John chuckled at the memory. "We'd sit at the table, Dean and I sharpening the steel ones, and you sharpening your plastic one..."

"We've got photos," Mary told him, "We had to sit you on a booster seat to reach the table. You'd get this very serious look of concentration on your face."

"And I'd swear, you put a better edge on it than we managed with the steel," declared John proudly.

"Oh, remember the time we were at Bobby's, and Sam marched up to him, and pulled the blade out of his boot, inspected it, and told Bobby he'd put a proper edge on it for him?" laughed Mary. "I thought he was going to pop, trying not to laugh out loud!"

"And for Christmas, you gave him one of your specially sharpened plastic ones!" John chuckled. "You worked on it for a fortnight, to make it just right for him. I thought he was going to burst into tears, he was so taken with it."

"Oh, oh, do you remember that little bastard who picked on you in grade school?" smiled Mary, "What was his name, Nick, it was, Nick somebody..."

"Oh, that little asshole," growled John. "If I'd known that he was bullying you, I'd have had a little 'talk' with his parents..."

"But your dad didn't have to," Mary recalled happily, "Because you took him on all by yourself! He was twice your size, but you took one of your plastic knives to school, and you stabbed that jerk, just like your father taught you..."

"I remember your performance afterwards," John sighed nostalgically, "The tears, the screaming, the eyes, all perfect. The principal was completely convinced that the moron had fallen on his own weapon while trying to attack you."

"Your father gave you your first steel knife after that," Mary said, with a little sniff. "Oh, and while I was proud, I was a little bit sad too, because it meant my baby was growing up..."

"I, er, don't... remember that," Sam stuttered eventually.

"Food's up!" announced Dean, as he and Ruby returned. "Coffee, and tea for Sam, and cookies, and for the convalescent... ta-dah! One of Ruby's famous French toast cheese and tomato creations!"

"Ohhhh," John crammed a chocolate chip cookie into his mouth with a blissful expression, "These are so good... hey, Ruby, if I ditch the old lady, will you leave that callow youth and marry me?"

"The only way you're going to leave me, John Winchester, is in a box," Mary told him archly. "Even if I have to put you there myself."

"You found your soulmate, you can't have mine," Dean said firmly, shoving his whole cookie into his mouth with a noise of pleasure and starting on another one.

"Great," humphed Ruby, "I get eternity with a six-foot-one chipmunk." Dean grinned around his mouthful. "You think you're cute?" she rolled her eyes at him.

"I think I'm adorable," he mumbled, batting his eyelashes.

She made a noise of disgust. "No more cookies for you!" she told him.

Dean's face fell. "Help! Help! I'm being persecuted by the Cookie Nazi!" he complained.

"Eat the one you got in your mouth," instructed his mother, "What are you doing, storing it for winter?"

"If you keep up a plentiful supply of cookies at all times, I won't feel the need to," he offered hopefully, with a winning smile.

Ruby and Mary berated him for having disgusting habits, while John pantomimed furiously to his eldest that the boy should just say 'Yes, dear'.

_You know, I don't think we can call them psychopaths, _Sam's brain postulated_, Because socially, they're far too well adjusted. We'll have to come up with a new word._

Once Sam had eaten his sandwich, Mary left off chastising Dean, and turned to him. "Now, we can talk more, if you promise you'll rest," she offered.

Sam dutifully snuggled under the blanket and, to show willing, cuddled Gabriel.

"You asked about how you were... taken," she went on, voice catching. "Please understand, it's very difficult for us to talk about."

"It was my fault," John mumbled, looking down at his hands, "I should've seen it coming."

"That's not true," Mary countered. "God knows how long he spent setting it up."

"Who?" asked Sam.

Mary's satisfied smile was predatory. "A man who will never trouble us again," she said with finality. "An asshole named Henriksen."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Victor Henriksen was an FBI man. He'd had some success against crime syndicates transplanted from Eastern Europe; the breakup of the Soviet Union had led all sorts to experiment with the concept of a truly free market, and they moved quickly to supply what the Free World wanted, primarily drugs and rebirthed vehicles, with the odd specimen of exotic wildlife thrown in. Who would've guessed that a crime lord would pay tens of thousands of dollars for an endangered parrot from Australia? There was no accounting for taste.

Victor was a student of history. The approach he'd proposed for dealing with the problem bore a resemblance to a mediaeval siege. A city was too big to tackle all at once; a frontal assault wouldn't work. Starving it for long enough until it weakened to the point where it could be attacked took longer, but was more effective. Syndicates ran on money, fear, and guns. Dry up the money, reassure the fearful, and cut of the supply of weapons, and they'd shrivel without the resources they needed. His ideas worked. Which was why he was promoted, and assigned the Singer dossier.

It was a few weeks after he'd moved into his bigger office that he'd had the epiphany. It came to him in a sudden, blinding insight:

God hated him.

He knew that God hated him, because He had clearly designed Robert Steven Singer to annoy him. It was as if someone had prayed to The Almighty, 'Dear God, please design an adversary for Victor who will be tailor-made to frustrate him, drive him nuts, make him look incompetent, and generally piss him off beyond all describing, amen.' And God, for reasons known only unto Himself, had obliged.

Bobby Singer ran a salvage yard, and also dealt in 'esoterica', a polite word for woo-woo crazy shit for people who believed in fairies at the bottom of the garden. He was also the most successful, ruthless and above all profitable weapons dealer in the northern USA. Victor knew that. Everyone knew that. But that was the problem. They _knew_ it, but they couldn't _prove_ it. None of the people who worked for him ever left behind so much as a hint of a fingerprint, a speck of DNA evidence or a single post-it note of a paper trail. Singer Inc. covered its tracks like a wiper across a whiteboard. It was almost uncanny. No, screw that, it _was_ uncanny. On the bad days, Victor found himself wondering if Singer used the woo-woo crazy shit to cover all evidence of his operations. On the really, really bad days, he found himself wondering what sort of ammunition would kill fairies.

He'd tried going after the bastard's finances – it had worked for Eliot Ness. But the salvage yard paid a hefty tax bill every year, and his business manager and book-keeper had thrown the books open. Hell, she'd written him a personal letter, describing how his 'misgivings' had concerned her, and that if the FBI was worried, she clearly wasn't doing her job properly – he or his representatives were of course welcome to inspect the accounts at any time to satisfy themselves, all they had to do was just show up, no appointment necessary.

The facts that the investigation had been initiated via a senior Internal Revenue officer, and the letter had been sent to him at his home address, were not lost on him. Singer didn't start fights, but he sure as hell finished them.

He'd spent two months organising an old-fashioned storm and search operation, but that had gone south. The best team he could put on it had spent weeks studying the rambling place that was Singer's base, working out how to knock out the surveillance and the dogs. And they'd been on the point of deploying when the old man himself had come striding out of the house, accompanied by the woman who was practically his adopted daughter, carrying a drink cooler and a tray of cupcakes, for Christ's sake, and they'd headed straight for where his men where. He'd asked for Victor – "So, which one of you idjits in black is Henriksen?" – then introduced himself with a handshake and a twinkle in his eye – "Although I suspect you already know me" – and he'd winked, the bastard had winked, then explained that where he'd been brought up, it was simple politeness to offer visitors a drink and something to eat, and Mary made the most wonderful iced tea, and her red velvet cupcakes were to die for...

That was the point at which he heard the soft 'ping', and a vague stinging sensation alerted him that he'd been shot in the ass.

There was the sound of giggling from an upper storey window of the house, and the silhouette of two boys, the taller one with what looked like a pellet rifle, stood grinning at him.

Mary Winchester's face had become a mask of horror, and she gasped 'Oh, I will put him across my knee for that!' before she stormed back towards the house. Victor heard her shortly afterwards, upbraiding the child – was he crazy? Taking a shot in low light without even using a scope? What sort of shot was that anyway? Hadn't his daddy taught him how to take a head shot? Why didn't he use the sill to steady the weapon? Who did he think he was, Annie Oakley? Oh, you just wait until your father gets home!

Victor had actually shuddered. John Winchester, Singer's ex-Marine strongman – on whom they could pin nothing, damn him – was a scary enough character, but Mary Winchester – nicknamed Bloody Mary by those who'd worked the case for any length of time – was, if half the things she was suspected of being involved with were true, positively terrifying.

It had been after that encounter that a meeting with Gordon Walker, a senior case manager with CPS, about a completely unrelated matter had led him to consider playing really dirty. 'Child endangerment', Walker said, we can nail them on that. Victor recognised a zealot when he saw one, but was happy to use the man to achieve his own ends. Maybe if they were required to show themselves to be fit and proper parents, he could winkle out information connecting them to Singer's operation.

A teacher's aide was sent to fetch Sam from class to the nurse's room, while another went to get Dean, on the pretext that Sam had bumped his head and was calling for his brother.

The friendly female officers who'd been on hand to explain that the boys weren't in any trouble, they just had to go with the nice people and the school counsellor, hadn't stood a chance.

When Sam had looked doubtful, Dean had smiled, his freckled face a picture of disarming eagerness, and said, "Come on, Sammy! We can ride in a police car! A real trip to funkytown!" Sam had smiled then, an adorably gap-toothed little bundle of cute, and trustingly held out his hand.

One of the police took it, and introduced herself. "Hey there, Sam," she smiled, "I'm Sherie."

"I'm Sam," he smiled shyly. "Can I tell you a secret?" he said, looking up at her with big hazel doe eyes. "I have to whisper it," he added conspiratorially. "So nobody hears."

"Sure, buddy," she assured him, hunkering down to be at eye level. "What did you want to say?"

Sam glared at everyone else, daring them to try to eavesdrop, and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "I know what a jugular vein is," he confided, pulling out his sharpened plastic knife and plunging it into her neck.

Things moved fast then: Dean was suddenly behind the other officer, grabbing her gun and shooting her in the back, before spinning to double tap the school counsellor in the head, while Sam plunged his knife into the other officer's leg – he knew what a popliteal artery was, too. And he could spell it.

The two boys made it to the window, and Dean went first so as to catch his little brother, but Sam's jacket had caught on the sill. That gave the lamed officer just enough time to grab him and latch onto his foot. Sam slashed at her, but his knife was only plastic, and it broke. Realising that he had no other option, Dean, weeping with self-loathing and distress, took to his heels and headed for the emergency muster point. His mother took him straight to Bobby's. Dean was safe there; any CPS minion who set foot on his property would have his dogs or his lawyers turned on them.

They tried after that, God knows, they tried to find him, but Victor and Walker spirited him away. They were able to trace a succession of 'treatment facilities', where they feared that their baby boy was being taught to forget his family, and foster homes, but the trail went cold. Teetotal Bobby got good and drunk for two weeks, John curled up and cried, Dean clutched Gabriel the bear and refused to speak, Doc Crowley despaired for them all. Especially Mary. He was worried that, in her grief and distress, she might become... careless.

But she didn't. Her father had trained her better than that.

So when Gordon Walker and Victor Henriksen were both found within 24 hours, beaten to death in the grounds of local schools, there was no evidence at all as to who had subjected then to the ordeals that must've taken hours to come to the inevitable grisly conclusion. The more sensationalist press had a field day with the fact that each corpse had one of the testicles removed by brute force, especially after the coroner's reports indicated that those particular mutilations had occurred ante-mortem.

Some people working for Henriksen wondered if somebody wanted the two of them to know what it was like to have one of your 'boys' torn away from you, but they had no proof.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam blinked in bemusement: John was blinking, Mary was wiping her eyes, and Dean was crying silently.

"But now you're back with us," Mary said, "And nobody will take you away from your family again."

"It was my fault," Dean sniffled miserably, "It was all my fault, I should've been quicker, I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry I lost you, you must hate me so much..."

"It's okay, Dean," Sam couldn't help but try to stop Dean beating himself up – another universal constant, apparently. "You tried to, er, save me. You were the perfect big bro. I'll bet you still are. I could never hate you. You're my brother."

With an anguished wail, Dean threw himself at Sam, gathering him into a hug and sobbing into Sam's shirt. "Um... there there," went Sam, awkwardly patting Dean's back. It was made more awkward by the fact that Gabriel was sandwiched between them.

"I love you, baby bro," declared Dean with a final sniffle.

"Er, I love you too, big bro," replied Sam.

_Ringgggg ringgggg ringgggg, _went Sam's brain, _Hello, I'd like to book a flight to the Bahamas please. Business class. What? No, I don't care what airline, as long as they serve lots of alcohol._

* * *

><p>You know I love to get reviews, right? *sniff sniff* Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Hugging You on the Sofa Of Life! (French Toast sandwich optional, but recommended.)<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

I hope the alerts and updates are working properly again; I miss the Denizens and their shameless encouragement when things go awry.

I've done some checking, and citizens of the US, the UK and Australia don't need a visa to visit the Bahamas if your stay isn't going to be longer than three months, and a regular ferry service leaves from South Florida. The local and US currencies are used pretty much interchangeably, and you don't need any vaccinations unless you're travelling from a country where Yellow Fever is endemic. Look out for a brain on a towel. You'll know it's Sam's brain, because if you approach it, it will just call for another daiquiri and tell you to get stuffed.

The throwing of rocks at angels to make them go away is stolen directly from Sir Pterry; it's what Albert did to the angel that showed up to fetch the little match girl in 'Hogfather'. If it's good enough for Albert, it's good enough for Dean. But it's okay; in this verse, it wasn't Castiel. Whoever it was, they probably took one look at this Dean, and decided that the whole Apocalypse thing could go on hold. Besides which, Singer Inc. seemed to be doing a reasonable job of it unassisted.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

"That's enough, Dean," John said gently, "His face is turning that funny colour again."

"What?" Dean sniffled to a halt, and pulled back to look at Sam. "Oh, God, I'm an idiot," he muttered, "You lie down again right now, Sam."

"He needs more tea," said Ruby firmly, "And it's time for his pills."

"Are you warm enough, honey?" asked Mary.

"I can bring down a comforter," offered Dean. "Would you like your pillow from the bed?"

"Maybe he should go back to bed," suggested Ruby.

Sam's eyes moved in small trapped circles from one to the next, and he clutched at Gabriel.

"That's enough, all of you," rumbled John. "Look at the boy. He's clearly frightened."

"Well, of course he's frightened," Mary gather him to her bosom again, "We've obviously just dredged up terrible memories! And now he doesn't feel safe! But you are safe here, Sam," she assured him, "I promise you, you are safe, and nobody will take you away again."

Inspiration dawned on Dean. "I know exactly who can fix that!" he chirped, leaving the room. He returned a minute later, being followed by what looked like a cross between a Shetland pony and a T. Rex. "Sam, meet Jimi!"

Sam stared at the dog. It was big. It was solid. It was one of the ugliest things he'd ever seen. And he'd seen honest-to-Cas Hellhounds. And it looked hungry.

"Um... I didn't think we were, uh, allowed to have a dog," he ventured, wondering if this house had a herd of wildebeest in the yard to keep the creature fed.

"Well, after you were taken, Dean was devastated," John explained. "Bobby gave him one of Rumsfeld's puppies, to be his companion, and, well, the critter was just so adorable, he grew on us, and we've had one ever since..."

"I wish you wouldn't let them sleep on your bed, though," commented Mary, "Until you teach them how to wipe their feet before they go upstairs."

"That was Giuseppe," smiled Dean, ruffling the dog's ragged ears. "He's long since gone to the Rainbow Bridge. After him there was Ludwig. Then Leontyne. She died after saving my ass from this bastard who tried to swindle Bobby out of a werewolf pelt. He employed a rugaru! How rude was that?"

"Oh, that was... sad," commented Sam. "So, she fought and killed the rugaru, but died of her wounds?"

"Oh, no, the rugaru wasn't there. She died of indigestion, silly old girl," sighed Dean fondly. "She was getting on, and the vet said that as she slowed down, we had to pay more attention to her diet. The swindling bastard was wearing a leather jacket. Just wait a second, I said, let me peel him for you, I said, we don't want to upset your tummy, I said, but she wouldn't listen, not when there was fresh meat right in front of her..."

"She always was one to bolt her dinner, right from being a puppy," John recalled with a smile. "Remember when those Jehovah's Witnesses tried to visit?"

"I certainly do," muttered Mary, "They gave her a terrible case of diarrhoea, poor thing, and she was so unwell that she forgot her housetraining. Every time I see that stain on the rug, I think of Leontyne."

"Anyway, now we have Jimi," Dean braced his stance as the gigantic beast leaned happily into the ear scritching, "Although he was supposed to be Enrico."

"I wasn't going to have another dog given one of those pussy names," John stated. "I mean, what sort of a name is Leontyne anyway, for Christ's sake?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "It's only the name of the greatest soprano this country ever produced," he answered.

"If you two are going to start this argument again, take it outside," sniffed Mary. "And don't you dare try to settle it with a food fight this time!"

"Anyway, Jimi will look after you," Dean told Sam. "So you can feel totally safe here. You'll look after Sammy for us, won't you, fella?"

Jimi whuffed gruffly, and wagged his tail. Sam exchanged a look with the dog. He couldn't decide whether its expression meant 'I greet you with affection, O youngest pup of my Pack, now fear not, for I shall protect you with my matter and my life, as I am a Hunter's dog, and this is the way of things', or 'There is quite a lot of lean meat on you, isn't there?'.

At a nod from Dean, the monstrous dog trotted forward, gave Sam a kiss on the nose (he tried not to wonder if it was tasting him) and curled up on the floor alongside the sofa.

"There," Mary beamed maternally at younger son and dog, "You two can keep each other company. You rest again now, honey," she gave Sam's head a final pat, "And concentrate on getting better."

Like an obedient son, Sam wiggled down under his blanket, and cuddled his teddy bear. With indulgent beaming smiles, his doting family left him to rest.

A few minutes after that, his nose indicated that in this reality, Jimi did not fart lavender. He wondered vaguely whether the dog had eaten someone that disagreed with him.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

After another day of being showered with tea, comfort food, fluffed pillows, hot water bottles, downy comforters, slobbery doggy kisses, Deanified Tolkien and the doting love of his happy, caring, loving, proud, attentive and homicidal family, he awoke to a flurry of preparation.

"We're going to Bobby's today, for Thanksgiving," Dean told him excitedly. "He's practically bouncing, waiting to meet you again!"

"So, do we, er, do this every year?" Sam asked, as Dean fussed around packing things.

"Of course!" Dean replied. "I mean, it's Thanksgiving! You have to do Thanksgiving with your family! We'll have to see who else can make it, we don't often get the whole tribe together..."

"The, er, tribe?" echoed Sam dubiously.

"Oh, yeah," Dean frowned, torn between two shirts then deciding to pack them both, "You can meet them, depending on who shows. There will be some you might remember, if we're lucky. Family don't end with blood, boy," Dean did a remarkably accurate Bobby impression for the final sentence.

When John called time to move out, Sam was ushered out of the house – which was a very nice one, he'd noticed – to the Impala. Dean opened the back door for him, to reveal a nest of comforters, blankets, pillows, hot water bottles, a thermos of tea, a bag of cookies, and, nestled amongst the bedding, Gabriel awaiting him.

"You're still recovering," his mother insisted when he demurred, "So you can nap on the way."

Behind her, John semaphored that Sam should just say 'Yes, Mom'.

Ruby gave Dean a quick hug, and said, "I'll ride with your parents – I want to talk to your Mom about stuff," and high-tailed it for the SUV truck John was starting. "See you there!"

"That's so typical," Dean smiled after her, letting Jimi into shotgun, "She wants to give us some time together. She knows you don't like her much."

"Well, she's a vampire," Sam countered, "I told you, after... after that demon attacked us and killed Jess, I went back to Hunting. The idea of making friends with one... how did you two meet, anyway?"

"Oh," Dean smiled as he eased the car out onto the road, "It was like something out of a romance novel. I warn you, it's really cheesy."

"I like cheese," Sam shrugged, "And Ruby has been practically force-feeding it to me for three days, now."

"Well," began Dean, "It was like any other of a hundred jobs I've done with Dad. It was hopelessly romantic. We were trying to kill each other..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Like millions of teenagers before him, when Dean Winchester hit puberty, he had battled to understand the myriad of things that impending adulthood had thrown at him. One of those things had been The Mystery Of Woman. He was growing into a handsome and self-confident young man, with an edge of cockiness, even, but the minute a girl tried to talk to him, he became a tongue-tied, blushing dweeb.

After Sam was snatched by CPS, Mary had insisted that he be home schooled; Bobby had immediately engaged a suitable tutor, a kindly old Classics scholar – he and his new charge took to each other immediately. The boy thrived under the arrangement, but Mary always blamed herself for his social awkwardness with the opposite sex, thinking that he might've done better in that respect if he'd gone to school with his peers. Give him time, Mary, his tutor, Alistair, always urged, there's nothing wrong with him. He's a sensitive boy. He'll find his own way, when the time is right, and he meets the right person. Just like you did, he'd add, with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.

Mary and John encouraged Dean to be social, and to date, and he did, but the problem was, Dean was looking for something more than what a lot of the girls who approached him were after. Despite Alistair's constant defence of his beloved pupil, the boy was too sensitive, Mary thought. He wore his heart on his sleeve.

It broke her heart whenever he came home, crushed, having finally worked up the courage to ask out a young lady he'd been growing fond of, only to find out that she wasn't interested in him as a person, she just wanted him for sex, and to show off as a handsome trophy in some sort of 'My Boyfriend Is Hotter Than Yours' contest.

I want what Mom and Dad have, he'd say miserably to Alistair, his beloved teacher being the only one he felt he could talk to on the subject, I must be some sort of idiot.

You're not an idiot, Dean, Alistair had reassured the boy he'd come to think of as a special nephew, It's all part of growing up. Young people are all about figuring out who they are, what they want, what they care about, what matters to them. You've just got there earlier than most of them. It'll happen, boy. One day, when you least expect it, you'll meet someone, and you'll think to yourself, this is the one for me, and they'll think the same thing, and you'll wonder why you were ever so worried.

When Dean finished his schooling, after considering further education, he decided to follow his father into working for Bobby. Alistair was disappointed when the boy knocked back the acceptance from Cambridge, his own alma mater, but wished Dean well in his future, and reminded him that 'she' was out there, somewhere.

He threw himself into his work. He had Hunted with his parents, so going out to deal with Bobby's clients was comparatively easy. It wasn't unheard of for some of Bobby's more knowledgeable customers to deal with, or even employ, the occasional fugly who could control themselves well enough to be useful intermediaries or, more often, hired muscle, but they had learned very early on in the piece that the Winchesters were not to be intimidated by a big bad. (If anything, they were more straightforward to deal with. Demons I get, but people are just plain crazy, Dean complained, and his mother would smile, and pat his cheek, and call him a sensitive soul.)

Nor were they to be deceived by a particularly arrogant representative of a Serbian syndicate; that country had a long folkloric tradition of _vorkudlak_ passing as and living amongst humans undetected, so when they went to confront the fat thug who sat amongst his coterie swilling rakia, while refusing to honour his arrangement with Mr Singer, they took long blades and dead man's blood.

The cannon fodder who drew weapons and provoked the Winchesters into doing likewise were merely a signal for the vampires to extrude their fangs, and attack. That was the signal for Dean to whoop with glee and reach for his long blade – he decapitated the drug lord before joining John in some father-son bonding activity.

They were outnumbered, but not outmatched; the nest for hire were quickly dispatched except for one last one, a diminutive female who fought ferociously, keeping Dean at bay with just half a broken chair leg.

Are you a fucking demon? asked Dean, breathing hard.

Come look at my teeth up close and you decide, she'd taunted him.

Maybe I'll make myself a necklace out of them, he'd said cockily.

Maybe I'll make a daiquiri out of you, she'd smiled, fangs descending, you look, uh... kind of... she seemed to run out of words and dropped her guard.

Yeah? He'd replied, preparing for the coup de gras, Well you look... you look...

He stuttered to a halt as they stared at each other.

What I really want to do, she resumed slowly, is... is...

She dropped her chair leg as Dean swooped at her.

When John turned around to back up his son, they were kissing passionately.

He'd shaken his head and smiled to himself, pulling out his phone to tell Mary. She squealed like an excited cheerleader when he sent her the photo.

John had cleared his throat, excused himself, and headed home, his grin running three times around his head.

When Dean showed up two days later with Ruby in tow, blushing like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Mary had hugged him, then hugged Ruby, and welcomed her into the family. Leontyne was a little bit miffed to lose her favourite sleeping place on the other side of Dean's bed, but accepted the new arrangement with good grace; the fact that his dog loved Ruby from their first meeting just added to Dean's conviction that he had finally found his own soulmate.

To her credit it had been a full year before Mary started dropping hints about grandchildren, making Ruby laugh and nudge Dean, who turned red to his hairline.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"She's just..." Dean took one hand off the wheel and waved it expansively. "She's just the one for me. I just knew. She's everything I want. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. She's funny, she's smart, she's not squeamish, she can hold her own in a fight... and she loves me for me." He sighed. "You probably think I'm being silly, but... she's the one. I just know it. We were meant for each other."

"I met a vampire once who was, uh, teetotal, so to speak," Sam nodded. "Her name was Lenore. She existed on animal blood. Cattle, mostly. Which I guess might make her, um, cowtotal. She was... nice."

"Oh, Ruby's a vampire," laughed Dean, "She does love her the red stuff – she says animal blood is disgusting. I've fed her a couple of times, after a tough job – she's been stabbed with dead man's blood covering my ass before, and needed blood in a hurry. Thank God for it, too, so she knows what Winchester tastes like."

"So, you, er, hit the local blood bank?" asked Sam.

"What? Hell, no! Would you eat steak stone cold?" Dean snorted dismissively. "And the anticoagulant they use, she says it's like putting paint thinners on blueberry pie. It's not a problem, there's always plenty to go around in our line of work." He smiled happily. "It appeals to something in me, knowing that I'm providing for my woman. If she heard me say that, she'd roll her eyes, and call me a caveman, and tell me that she's perfectly capable of providing for herself. I guess I have a traditional streak in me. I want to treat her like a queen, make sure she wants for nothing."

"Wow," replied Sam, "Who said chivalry was dead?"

After that, Dean insisted that he try to nap, so that he would be rested when they arrived, so he did, after being flummoxed by Dean's insistence that he wouldn't play music – "Hey, I'm not going to fire up the iPod if you're trying to sleep back there, what sort of asshole do you take me for?"

"You put an iPod dock in your car?" he asked incredulously.

"Hey, just because she's a classic that doesn't mean I can't install mod cons," Dean asserted. "I tore out the tape deck as soon as Dad handed her over to me, and CDs are pretty much redundant now." He paused. "I can turn it on if you think it'll help you sleep," he suggested, "I got an amazing remastered version of Leontyne Price's second 'Aida' loaded up just last week! You wanna hear it?"

"Er, okay, sounds great," mumbled Sam, hugging Gabriel as the strains of Verdi's overture began.

"The story always messes with my head, though," Dean confided. "I mean, in the end, there they are, Radames and Aida, sealed up in the tomb, and they're supposed to die in there of suffocation. And what happens? The thinner the oxygen gets, the louder and higher they sing? She expires on high C, or something. It's like La Traviata, when you get some incredibly fat woman playing Violetta, and when the doctor comes out to announce that she's supposed to be dying of TB, it's meant to be the most dramatic part, and I always end up laughing. Mom says I'm an embarrassment, and won't go with me anymore. I mean, what is it with fat women and singing? Did you ever see Joan Sutherland as Aida? As if a slave girl would be that fat! It's like Marilyn Horne as Carmen, the fattest gypsy girl you've ever seen. She looked like she's the one they should be waving the red capes at. Now Valkyries, they should be big women, Jane Eaglen, absolutely, but Callas? Brunhilde is supposed to look like she eats the warriors that aren't fit for Valhalla. I know it's meant to be escapist, but any time I see opera, I always feel like I've wandered into some alternative reality where nothing makes sense."

"Funnily enough," replied Sam, closing his eyes, "I know exactly what you mean."

_I'll send you a postcard_, promised his brain, _And think of you whilst I destroy myself with Bahamaritas._

* * *

><p>Is it just me, or are these chapters getting longer? Maybe I should start splitting them earlier. Which would not in any way be a pathetic ruse attempting to garner more reviews, nope, definitely not, no embarrassingly obvious rusing going on here, folks...<p>

Reviews are the Winchesters Trying To Steal Your Program And Laughing In All The Wrong Places in the Opera Of Life!


	10. Chapter 10

FFN is feeling a leetle buggy at the moment, the latest manifestation being a refusal to let people see the latest posted chapters. Hopefully the SysOps will have them ironed out sooner rather than later, but until then, all we can do is be patient, I suppose. Although telling me to wait patiently for reviews is like telling a small child to wait patiently for ice cream.

You can't take me to the opera, either – I laugh in all the wrong places. The opera stuff, including the absurdity of fat singers and the apparent vocal power of characters who are meant to be at death's door, is something that's bothered me for a very long time. Pavarotti as Radames, an Egyptian prince and leader of his father's army, was particularly comical – he barely fit into his war chariot. He had to drive it himself, because although an Egyptian war chariot would actually have had a driver and an archer, there was no room. Don't talk to me about artistic licence. It's not as though you have to be that fat to have a fabulous voice. I mean, look at baritone Teddy Tahu Rhodes. Yes, let's all pause, and look at Teddy.

http**COLONSLASHSLASH** www**DOT** theatrepeople**DOT **com**DOT **au/reviews/don-giovanni-0

What... artistic flair and expression he brought to the role of Don Giovanni last year... Don't ask me what his voice sounded like, strangely I can't remember.

It might be interesting to see him in The Pearl Fishers sometime, maybe in a stark, post-modern reinterpretation with unprecedented realism, in which the pearl fishermen take to the water, a giant aquarium onstage, perhaps, in their traditional diving garb, consisting of a knife belt and a lovely smile... I'm sorry, where was I?

Opera. It's heavy metal for grown-ups.

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><p><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>

Dean meeting the love of his life was something that, in this version of his life, Sam supposed he could accept. He had carried a small, faint hope that, one day, Dean would find the right person to settle down with – or at least form some sort of meaningful and fulfilling relationship. The potential was there, he was sure of it. Wild hippopotami wouldn't drag it out of him, but the determinedly annoying, lecherous, pathologically stoic and emotionally constipated, boozing brother with disgusting dietary habits and truly appalling taste in music that he'd grown up with had a romantic streak, although it wasn't as well developed as it was in this considerate, gentlemanly, affectionate one who knew his own drinking limits, put a napkin on his lap and when he ate pizza and passed over his iPod so that his baby brother could choose some music he'd like to nap to...

_Remind me again why we're not making plans to stay here?_ prodded his brain.

Because the Dean here is a considerate, gentlemanly, affectionate, well-adjusted, well-mannered immoral murderous psychopath, Sam growled at it.

_Nope, he's not a psychopath, _argued his brain,_ None of your family are. They're too emotionally healthy. Concerned with each other's well-being. They're more happily functional than the Brady Bunch._

That still leaves immoral and murderous, Sam countered.

_What, because they kill fuglies, and sometimes human scum? _His brain yawned. _Splitting hairs. Human beings have been doing 'monster' better than supernatural critters ever have, since humans were invented._

Shut up, Sam instructed it, I thought you were on vacation.

_International roaming, dude,_ shrugged his brain. _And don't tell me you don't prefer this Papa Winchester. Have you seen him touch booze since we got here? Every time he and Mary look at each other, the air practically tinkles with love. And he's spent the last three days telling everybody who'll listen, and everybody who won't, how smart you are, and how proud of you he is..._

I"m not listening to you, Sam snapped, You're concussed and not thinking straight.

_This Dean doesn't even burp out loud, _sighed his brain_, Nor does he sing along to mullet rock in a voice that sounds like a cross between a hungover crow and a foghorn with ice down its shorts. He's pretty good, athough, his upper register could be a bit more secure._

What? Sam wondered if his brain made itself ache with non sequiturs like that.

_I shit you not, _it insisted,_ Wake up and listen. Go on. It's Mascagni this time. I love the Intermezzo arrangement of Ave Maria, don't you? Well, of course you do, I'm your brain. You want me to buy you a souvenir nodding dog?_

Sam woke up to a rich baritone filling the car, singing along with the stereo.

"...Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, Ora, ora pro nobis,

Ora pro nobis peccatoribus,

Nunc et in hooooo-raaaaaaa..."

"Wow," went Sam, sitting up as Dean nailed the F above middle C, "You do that with Dad in the car?"

"...aaaaaaaa YEEEEEP!" the note turned into a startled squawk. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up," Dean apologised. "But seriously, are you nuts? You think Dad would let me listen to 'Cavaleria Rusticana'? Ha! He thinks 'Fidelio' is an opera about a kid who plays a violin. He thinks 'Madama Butterfly' is about a Japanese entomologist. He thinks 'Norma' is about Marilyn Monroe..."

"Oh. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," Sam said.

"You've probably done us both a favour," Dean observed as the piece came to an end, "I usually struggle with the A at the end. I have been known to make Jimi howl. He's a relentless critic if my pitch is off by a gnat's ass." He glanced fondly at the dog. "You don't wanna be in the same room when he howls," he laughed, "He's got better formant than me. Hell, he's got better formant than Carreras."

"I've only been once," Sam confessed, "Jess dragged me along to see 'Die Fledermaus'. It turned out to be a good night out, though."

"Ha!" Dean snorted dismissively. "That's almost as bad as G&S. It's not proper opera unless the principals die at the end."

Dean held forth on what constituted 'proper opera' – "And Don Giovanni should totally have been dragged off by Hellhounds, because he was an A-grade asshole" – until they turned onto a familiar road, and through a pair of high gates.

_It's Singer Salvage, Jim, but not as we know it,_ Sam's brain mugged.

The house was bigger. A lot bigger. And it looked as though it had been painted sometime in the last twenty years. The ground around the house was neatly kept, the garden beds edged, and a rambling climbing rose smothered part of the porch. The herb patch was a lot tidier than he remembered, and the large rosemary almost-tree was carefully pruned. A washing line full of linen flapped hopefully in the cold breeze.

"I, er, don't remember Bobby being the sort who could be bothered to put laundry outside at all, let alone in November," he said uncertainly.

"Oh, that's Meg," Dean smiled, "She hates using the dryer. She says they don't smell right if they don't dry outside."

"Meg?" Sam tried not to yelp.

"She's his housekeeper," grinned Dean. "And didn't he and Mom have a set-to over that? He complains constantly that he's not a kid who needs a nanny, but really, he loves it." He looked thoughtful. "The only thing I don't get is the hair," he went on, "She can't seem to leave it the same style or colour for more than a few weeks. It's like every time I see her, she looks like a different person..."

"Well, it's kinda... big for a single guy to look after, I guess," Sam ventured, "What with trying to run his... business as well."

"Exactly. She's great, she's just like Alice from the Brady Bunch, only without the saccharine sweetness that makes you want to punch her. Be warned, though, you're still expected to make your own bed and do your own laundry when we're here, and if you leave wet towels on the floor or don't rinse the coffee pot out, she turns into an absolute demon... "

"Where is he? Where is he?" a gruff voice demanded from the house, as they saw Bobby fling the door open and come charging down the steps. "Where is the boy?" He came to a halt in front of Sam. "Sam?" he asked with hopeful hesitancy, "Is that really you, son?"

Sam couldn't help the smile that made its way onto his face. "It's really me, Bo – OOF!"

Bobby grabbed him in a bear hug. "Oh, we thought we'd lost you for good," snuffled the old man, eventually pulling back, "Let me look at you. Huh, I guess at least they fed you right," he noted gruffly with a final sniff, "Either that, or your Momma actually had a fling with a yeti and never told anyone."

"Hey, he is like a yeti, isn't he?" grinned Dean. "Tall, and hairy, and we never thought we'd ever have a confirmed sighting!"

"You idjits get inside," muttered Bobby, surreptitiously wiping his eyes, "Meg will never let me hear the end of it if either of you get frostbite. She's been bakin' like a woman possessed, and there's hot chocolate on the stove."

Dean's eyes went wide. "Has she made cupcakes?" he demanded. "Come on, Yeti, Meg makes the best cupcakes!"

"Of course," Bobby rolled his eyes, "Seein' as somebody I know is addicted to the damned things."

"They are not 'damned things'," corrected Dean, as they headed for the house. "Cupcakes are one of the five food groups, along with pancakes, cheese, spinach and cocoa."

_Spinach is a food group? _Sam's brain boggled._ He left out rum. Have the cabana boy bring another jug of daiquiri, will you?_

"I love me some cupcakes!" chirped Dean happily, running up the stairs. "Meg! We're here!"

"Hello, Mr Winchester," the young woman smiled, turning her head to let Dean peck her on the cheek. "I heard that car of yours from a mile away. You wipe your feet before you come in," she added sternly. Dean, Bobby and Jimi all cringed just a little, and did what they were told.

"Did you make cupcakes?" Dean asked plaintively.

"Of course," Meg rolled her eyes. "Because I couldn't stand the thought of you slinking around like a kicked puppy and going into cupcake withdrawal."

"Ooooh! What sort?" Dean practically bounced on the spot.

"Pumpkin and spice, of course," she replied, "It's Thanksgiving!"

"Cream cheese frosting?" Dean asked hopefully.

Meg sniffed in disdain. "Is anything less ever good enough for my cupcakes?" she said.

"Yaaaaay!" Dean yipped in triumph and bolted for the kitchen.

"Leave some for everybody else!" she called after him. "He won't, you know," she sighed, shaking her head and smiling, "I'll have to make some more tomorrow. I swear, one day he's going to turn into a big cupcake himself."

"Meg, this is Sam, Dean's brother," Bobby smilingly introduced him, "Sam, this is Meg, my housekeeper, a completely evil woman who performs arcane and satanic rituals in the kitchen..."

"How do you do, Mr Winchester," Meg wiped a hand on her apron, then offered it to Sam, before turning back to Bobby. "Mr Singer, it is not an 'arcane ritual', the oven must be thoroughly cleaned regularly," she said in a tone indicating that this was not the first time she'd had this conversation. "The same goes for the coffee pot. And hats, I might add, since you insist on wearing them constantly."

"... She invades my bedroom, and turns the place upside down..."

"And bed linen, Mr Singer," Meg said, "And surely even you will acknowledge that, sooner or later, dusting must occur."

"... I don't even get privacy in the bathroom..."

"I am a tolerant woman, Mr Singer," Meg went on, "But I draw the line at the degreasing of engine parts in the bath."

"... I think she set wards in the kitchen..."

"Mr Singer, you approved my choice for the new dishwashers," she interrupted with exasperation, "Just because you can't fit certain car components into the drawer configuration ones, that doesn't mean I've taken unnatural measures to exclude you from using them!"

"...She takes my personal belongings and sacrifices them to some dark eldrich fiend..."

"Indeed," sighed Meg in a long-suffering way, "I am guilty – once a shirt has fallen apart beyond mending, I abduct it in the middle of the night, and take it to the basement, where I perform arcane rituals of desecration, in order to offer its puny body unto my true master, the Great Archdemon Housework, then they become my helpless slaves, doomed to spend the rest of their miserable days wiping down benches, dusting or cleaning up spills."

"See? I told you!" Bobby barked in satisfaction. "She's evil! I blame your mother."

While Bobby cackled at having proved to Sam how evil his housekeeper was, they made their way into a large, well-appointed, and very tidy kitchen. A tray of cupcakes, plump and laden with frosting and bearing little Thanksgiving-themed decals, sat on one sideboard. Dean sat at the table, three empty patty cases on a plate before him, whilst Jimi watched him with the Big Brown Eyes dialled all the way up to eleven.

_The way that dog's watching him,_ opined Sam's brain, _There's liver in those cupcakes, or she's baked teeny tiny little pieces of Jehovah's Witness into each one. A bit like butterfly cakes, with the gooey centre, only she's used a lovely filling of pureed brain and icing sugar instead of lemon curd and cream..._

"Ohhhhhh, these are so good," Dean hummed, "How do you make the little sugar turkeys?"

_Out of their noses, probably_, Sam's brain went on. _It could be a bit like the old coin in the Christmas pudding, oh, wow, look, I got the lucky finger bone in my cupcake, hurrah! _

"By performing arcane and satanic rituals in the kitchen," Meg answered, producing one of her helpless slaves from her apron to wipe crumbs from the table. "Mr Winchester, Gluttony is a Deadly Sin," she informed him.

"Well, yeah," he conceded, "But I kill people for a living, Meg."

"That's your employment," she waved a hand dismissively, "But you stuff yourself with cupcakes for personal gratification." She looked defeated. "I'll have to make some more, I suppose," she humphed.

"The double choc ones?" Dean turned on his own version of puppy-dog eyes.

"And I suppose you want the peanut butter crunch frosting on them?" Meg asked in a resigned tone.

"Absolutely!" grinned Dean. "Nothing less would be good enough for your cupcakes!"

"Why don't we head into the living room," suggested Bobby nonchalantly, as Dean piled more cupcakes onto a plate. "Your folks won't be too far out."

There was somebody else already in the living room; a dignified looking man with a greying beard stood stiffly from the sofa, and turned to them.

"Hello Dean, my boy," he said fondly.

"Alistair!" Dean almost dropped his cupcakes in his hurry to pull his old tutor into an affectionate yet completely manly hug. "What are you doing here? Where have you been?"

"How could I possibly pass up an opportunity to catch up with my most capable pupil and his wonderful family for Thanksgiving?" the older man smiled. "And anyway, Crowley will need some help to save you from yourselves, no doubt." Alistair turned to Sam, and stuck out his hand. "You must be Sam, returned at last to the fold," he beamed, "I am so happy for you, and for your family. Especially Dean. It was so very hard on him. He blamed himself, it was just heartbreaking..."

Before Sam could ask what that meant, he heard feet thundering down the stairs.

"Was that the Impala?" he heard a young female voice call. "Are they here? Dean! Oh, Deaaaaaan! Where are yooooooou?"

Dean suddenly looked stricken, whilst Alistair and Bobby tried not to grin too hard. "Hide me, Sam," he yelped, darting behind his baby brother, "She's... "

"Insatiable?" suggested Alistair.

"Relentless?" posited Bobby.

"Determined, certainly," nodded Alistair.

"Unambiguous, definitely," agreed Bobby.

The living room door banged open.

"Deee – oh," the young woman paused, and smiled, before she flung herself at Sam to hug him. "Sam!" she trilled happily, as Sam's jaw dropped in surprise. "Wow! You grew! Now, where's... aha!" her smile widened when she spotted Dean. "There you are!" she declared, slinking over to him and slapping him soundly on the ass, making his cheeks flush pink. "Oh God, that's so firm. Where's Ruby?"

"She's riding with Mom and Dad," Sam answered.

"Really? Hey, that truck is much slower than the Impala," she continued, advancing on Dean like a starving wolf on an injured rabbit, "We could always amuse ourselves until they get here."

"Bobby! Alistair!" Dean practically shrieked, then slapped a hand away as her fingers walked playfully up his chest. "Make her stop! Make her stop!"

"All right, missy," an older voice sighed in a weary fashion behind them, "Leave him alone. He's not interested."

"But Mooooom..."

The second woman who stood in the doorway was having none of it.

"Jo Beth Harvelle, you stop molesting that boy right now!"

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><p>The Great God FFN willing, Reviews are the Buff Baritones Serenading You on the Realistic Opera Set Of Life! (Or you can have a Winchester if you prefer, singing or otherwise.)<p> 


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Ellen glared at Jo. "Stand down," she ordered, "He said no. When a man says no, he means no."

"He hasn't technically said no, yet," Jo grinned back.

"No!" squeaked Dean.

"Spoilsport," she sighed melodramatically, giving his ass a squeeze before backing off. "You weren't any better when we were kids," she smiled at Dean, "When we played kiss chase, you screamed whenever I caught you."

"I didn't like playing that game," muttered Dean, ears still red.

"You let Sam catch you and kiss you," Jo pointed out.

"He was a toddler, and he's my brother," Dean replied, edging behind Sam again, "It's perfectly normal to hug and kiss your baby brother, and let him hug and kiss you. And he never wanted to play 'Nurses and Patients'..."

"That was a cute little dress-up outfit I had, wasn't it?" Jo smiled happily at the recollection. "A little nurse's hat and cape, a little kiddie-sized doctor's bag, a little toy stethoscope..."

"You were a pervert even then!" declared Dean. "Even by kindergarten, everybody knows that the doctor listens to your heart at your chest – not by sticking the stethoscope down your pants..."

"It's perfectly normal for young children to be curious about each other's bodies," Jo waved a hand dismissively.

"It is not normal for grade school girls to threaten to tie their male friends to a tree and try to pants them!" Dean shot back.

"If you could just get your libido back on the leash for a moment, girl," rumbled Bobby in amusement, "Sam, I don't know if you remember Ellen, my business manager and financial wizard of a book-keeper, and of course Jo, Kiss Chase Champion for most of the 80s."

"Um, hi," stumbled Sam, as Ellen smiled maternally at him.

"It is so good to see you again, Sam," she told him, giving him a less boisterous hug than Jo had done. "And all grown up, too! We were all pretty much convinced that you were lost to us."

"Kiss Chase was so much harder once you were gone," Jo said, "Because I didn't have my wingman to grab Dean around the legs and help me hold him down."

"Oh. Er, I... don't expect me to help you with that anymore," Sam said eventually, as Dean shot him a grateful look, "Because Dean's kind of, er, paired off now."

"Oh, I know," sighed Jo, "But you can't blame a girl for trying. I mean, the worst that can happen is that he says no."

"Actually, the worst that could happen is that Ruby could tear your head right off and bleed you dry," Sam pointed out.

"Are you kidding?" humphed Dean. "Ruby thinks it's hilarious! She... she threatened to give me to Jo for Christmas, one year," he went on, blushing furiously again. "For two hours. Said she'd tie me to the bed with tinsel, and, and, tie a red ribbon in a bow around my... my..."

"That was a joke, Dean," Jo rolled her eyes. "She'd never do anything like that, and you know it."

"Well it wasn't the least bit funny," Dean scowled, blushing red again.

"Yes it was," Jo insisted.

"No, it wasn't," Dean griped.

"Actually, son, it was pretty damned funny," Bobby said.

"I hate you all," Dean mumbled. "The only person I like anymore is Meg, because her cupcakes are awesome. I don't care if she tortures old shirts."

Dean continued to mutter about the unacceptability of sexually objectifying anybody, because this was the 21st century, for fuck's sake, while Meg bustled around with hot drinks. John, Mary and Ruby arrived shortly afterwards. Ruby and Jo exchanged girl talk, and laughed when they got a squeal out of Dean by sneaking up on him and doing a bilateral ass grab.

"All you idjits are gonna hafta share rooms," Bobby observed, "Because we're gonna run outta space if everybody shows."

"The unwed ladies can bunk together," Ellen suggested.

"And we can sit up all night, and eat cookies, and do each other's hair, and giggle to keep you all awake and wondering what we're up to," added Ruby.

"Although you probably won't want to know," leered Jo.

"Oh, I don't know," mused John innocently. Mary gave him a dirty look.

"Anybody else expected?" Alistair asked.

"Andy said he'd be here," Bobby told him, "And," he went on, smiling broadly, "He's bringin' his lady friend."

Jo and Ruby gasped and beamed. "We finally get to meet her!" they enthused.

"Uh-huh," Bobby beamed, "But she's shy, so don't you bunch of idjits go scarin' the hell out of her. Oh, and our pet shark, of course, although he may be distracted, he smelled blood in the water in Ohio last week..."

Doc Crowley arrived shortly afterwards, greeting Alistair warmly, and taking Jo to task for harassing Dean. He insisted on examining his patient, declaring Sam well on the way to complete recovery. Alistair declared himself in intellectual nirvana as he now had two educated men to converse with.

Lunch seemed to consist of an indoor picnic of sandwiches, chicken, pastries and cupcakes, although Dean seemed to eat mainly cupcakes, for which Mary took him to task. His 'extended family' chattered and laughed around him in a very convivial atmosphere.

"So, Sam," Alistair asked, "Have you ever thought about going back to school?"

Mary clapped her hands. "Oh, that would be wonderful! We'd have another lawyer in the family!"

""How about it, son?" queried John, "Is it something you'd like to do? He could take his pick of colleges, you know," he told Alistair, beaming with pride, "He's scary smart. Knocked the LSAT out of the park."

Sam looked nonplussed. "Well, I, er, it's not, um..."

"There's no need to rush into it," John reassured him, "You have a lot of adjusting to do, coming back to your family. But think about it. We can send you anywhere you'd like to go!"

"I have many old friends at Cambridge," Alistair said, "I would be happy to get some admissions information for you."

"No, no, no," Doc Crowley gestured decisively with a chicken leg, "You need to check out Oxford. I'm still in touch with some of the faculty at St John's college – I'd love to head over there and show you around the place..."

"My boy will go to an American college," declared John, waving his own chicken leg just as assertively.

"John, just look at him!" Crowley said, "He was clearly designed to row. Those arms, those legs..."

"All that hair to flap in the breeze in a picturesque manner," added Dean.

"He can do that at Yale, or Harvard, or wherever he wants to go," John said firmly.

"If he wants to go," asserted Mary, smiling at Sam reassuringly. "He might not want to," she went on, "The decision is his."

"Are you kidding?" snorted John, "Of course he wants to go! A brain like that won't be content falling into line with his old man in the family business..."

"I could sure use him here, to take care of the other side of the business, books, artefacts, that sort of thing," Bobby nodded, "Half the stuff that comes in, I got no idea what it actually is, and I can't time to look at it, and experienced Hunter with an academic bent would be the ideal man..."

"Sam was on a Hunt when we found him," Dean mentioned, changing the subject, "Doing research. Weren't you, Sam?"

"Er, yeah," Sam finally managed to make his vocal cords work again, "Several disappearances, no apparent links, no suspicious circumstances, authorities not taking much of an interest..."

It was an extremely strange experience to have a brainstorming session with his family as to what might be causing people to go missing.

_I might have something to add later on that topic_, his brain piped up, _Regarding Moira Parker. But right now it's time for my scuba diving lesson._

They were interrupted when a dog almost as large and ugly as Jimi came trotting into the room, made a beeline for where Dean's dog was snoozing in front of the fire, and snuffled affectionately at his ears.

"They're here!" beamed Bobby, "You mind what I said," he added sternly, greeting the new arrivals. "Andy, good to see you again, son," he clapped the middle-aged man on the shoulder. "You won't believe who's turned up!"

"Yes I will, because John called me three days ago," grinned the newcomer. "You must be Sam," he continued, holding out a hand.

"Andrew?" Sam blurted out in utter surprise.

"I never answered to that even as a kid, mate," he drawled in a broad northern Australian accent, with a smile that made the long scar running down his face pucker. "Makes me sound like me dad."

"Sam, this is Andy Jaeger, who does sterling work for me, and sometimes works with your dad if Team Winchester needs a bit of back-up," Bobby explained. "And this..." he prompted gently, smiling at the woman who appeared to be hiding behind Andy.

Andy cleared his throat. "Everybody," he said, "This is Veronica."

"Hi, everybody," she said in a shy voice, "I'm, um, I'm Veronica." Her accent had a slight Midwestern twang.

"Veronica, this is pretty much my family," Andy went on, "The old fart Singer you know, this is John and Mary, and their son Dean, that's his dog Jimi, he's Joni's brother, this is Ruby, and Ellen and Jo, and that guy sitting there looking like he'd rather be in a library is Alistair, and the Pommy bastard who's still sulking over the last Test Match is Doc Crowley..."

"Oh, great, the wild colonial boy is here," muttered Doc, "We'll just see how cocky you are next time I have to pull bullets out of your careless carcass, you Antipodean philistine."

"Way to go with completely overwhelming her, you big dope," Mary rolled her eyes and smacked Andy in the arm, "Hello, Veronica," she went on, smiling at the younger woman, "We're all so glad to meet you at last! We were so excited when we heard that you'd paired up with Andy. He needs somebody to keep him in line! Bobby said you were from Montana?..." Like a well-oiled machine, the womenfolk closed ranks to welcome the newcomer and moved to the sofas, as Meg magically appeared with a pot of coffee and more cupcakes.

"How the hell do they do that shit?" wondered Dean, "It's like they read minds, or something."

"Meg never magically appears with a tray of beers for us," Andy pointed out.

"It's a chick thing," shrugged Sam, "They network."

"Women tend to be the social organisers," Doc ventured, "It's probably an evolutionary thing, as modern humans evolved they were the social glue that held small hunting bands together, which was a survival trait."

"I've said it before, boys," John nodded sagely, "Do not fuck with The Sisterhood."

There was a general murmuring of agreement.

"So, gentlemen," Bobby said, "Poker?"

"Sounds good," smiled Doc, "Provided you open a new pack of cards in front of me."

"Are you accusing me of underhanded behaviour?" asked Bobby in an affronted voice.

"No," Doc kept smiling, "I'm accusing you of being a cunning old cheat. If I'm going to play poker with you, and not two but three Winchesters, and I'm betting that the youngest one is just as crooked at the other two..."

"Oh, you wound me, Doc," Dean said winsomely, "Questioning my manly honour..."

"You don't have any," Doc sniffed, "You've been a shameless card shark since you were ten years old."

"The boy just has a good head for odds and is good at reading people," Alistair defended Dean loyally, "It's not his fault that you're a terrible poker player. Look, we'll let you start with twice as many matches as everybody else."

"You need to buy some chips, Bobby," scowled Doc, "Because Dean can't split those down the middle under the table."

"We could play for peanuts instead?" suggested John.

"Oh, that's no good," said Andy sheepishly, "I'll just eat my stake before we'd played two hands."

"What about pasta shells?" suggested Dean.

"No," sighed Bobby, "The last time I tried to use pasta as currency, Meg gave me a real earful about wasting good food, then I got the lecture on The Evils Of Gambling. That woman has more lectures on Sin than a crooked televangelist."

"Is it technically a Deadly Sin?" asked John.

"I guess it would come in under Greed, if you're gambling for money," mused Sam.

"Or Gluttony, if you're gambling for peanuts," added Andy.

"What about if you gambled for something that doesn't taste good, like, like... brussels sprouts?" wondered Dean.

Alistair looked thoughtful. "Well, it might count as Pride, since you wouldn't be coveting the brussels sprouts per se, but you'd be playing to win, beat the other players," he suggested.

"There could be Wrath, too, if you lost too many brussels sprouts," said John. "Or Envy, if somebody had more brussels sprouts than you."

"I'm having a hard time imagining anybody getting envious of somebody else's brussels sprouts, under any circumstances," Andrew sounded doubtful. "Same goes for Lust, really."

"True," Bobby nodded, "I doubt if anybody ever made porn that had wimmen rollin' around in the raw on a bed of brussels sprouts."

"There are stranger markets than that for porn," John pointed out.

"Yeah, but it wouldn't be the brussels sprouts that guys were looking at," Sam felt compelled to say, "They'd be looking at the women. The brussels sprouts would be irrelevant."

"That's what I love about these gatherings," remarked Doc snidely, "Where else could I get such considered discussion on deeply philosophical matters, such as the interpretation of religious dogma and contemporary idioms in pornography via the medium of brassica vegetables?

They headed for a roomy yet cosy lounge that didn't exist in the Casa Singer that Sam knew, and had just agreed to play for matches (on the proviso that Dean would not stretch his currency by splitting any in half) when they heard the front door again.

"Ah! That'll be the shark now," grinned Bobby, heading out to meet another member of the 'tribe'.

"Oh, great," sighed Doc gloomily, "We might as well as just give him all the matches, he's got the most impenetrable poker face this side of Mt Rushmore."

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport," Alistair told him, "You need the practice. Live a little, Doc!"

"Who exactly is the shark?" asked Sam.

"Oh, you'll like him," Dean smiled, "He's Bobby's lawyer, and a really good friend..."

Bobby returned with another man in tow. "Gentlemen," he grinned, "Jaws is here. Prepare to lose your matches."

"Hello, everyone," the man in the trenchcoat said in a gravelly voice, before fixing Dean with a piercing stare. "Hello, Dean."

* * *

><p>Yes, men really do talk that sort of drivel when they get together. That, and sport.<p>

Reviews are the Winchester Tied To The Bed With Tinsel With A Red Bow Around His...

No, er, no. Please send reviews, they make me happy.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

"Cas!" A general murmur of "Hiya, Cas," went around the room as Dean bounded over to the new arrival like an enthusiastic puppy, and gave him a hug. "Dude where have you been?"

Castiel gave Dean a long-suffering look. "Putting the fear of litigation into one of the nosier members of the Ohio justice system," he replied. "Dean, personal space," he sighed, "I'm going to tattoo it on the inside of your eyelids."

Dean backed off slightly. "Cas, this is my brother Sam," he beamed, "Sam, this is Castiel. He's totally cool."

"Hello, Sam," Castiel actually smiled, "It's something of a relief to meet another child of Mary and John's, to confirm that they are able to breed something other than this octopus."

"Don't mind them," Andy flapped a hand at Dean and Cas, "It's the most beautiful bromance I've ever seen they've got going on there."

"Yeah, don't be like that, Cas," Dean grabbed Cas around the shoulders and waggled him back and forth, pinching his cheek as Castiel rolled his eyes, "You're my best friend! In a totally manly way."

"Oh, er, that's... great," Sam smiled uncertainly. "So, er, how did you two meet?"

"Dean went shopping for a best friend," Cas told Sam, "And I was last to point to someone else. Nobody else wanted me anyway because I'm a lawyer."

"Castiel is the most cunning, ruthless, devious, scheming asshole who ever bent the law over and made it his bitch," Bobby informed Sam, "And after he got Dean out of a teeny tiny little spot of trouble in Tennessee a number of years ago..."

Castiel nodded in recollection. "I whipped an indict, and excused him from extradition," he confirmed.

"They just kind of hit it off," Bobby went on. "Just don't get stuck in the middle of one of their prank wars, is all I'm sayin'."

"If he offers to take you somewhere interesting for your birthday, don't listen to him, Sam," warned Dean.

Castiel actually sighed. "I cannot believe that you wouldn't take advantage of my generosity," he said, almost sadly. "As your friend, I thought it would do you good to broaden your horizons."

"I thought you were taking me to an interesting bar," complained Dean.

"It was an interesting bar," Castiel countered. "Very interesting indeed."

Sam looked shocked. "He didn't take you to some drug den?" he asked.

"He took me to a brothel," Dean glared at Castiel, who smirked back unrepentantly. "Then he got us thrown out."

"Cas, please tell me you didn't hit some poor unsuspecting ponytailed twat who was only trying to make a living," pleaded Crowley.

"He didn't hit anybody," Dean griped, as Castiel grinned even wider, "He tried to order off the menu."

"Sam's going to study law," John announced proudly. "He got a full ride to Stanford, and blew the LSAT into the weeds."

"A colleague would be most welcome," replied Castiel, "The workload in dealing with the legal aspects of Mr Singer's business matters can quite heavy. People just will not listen to reason – there are times when I think that I wasted my time getting an education, I should just have gone for a sharper blade to start with."

"How did it go in Ohio?" asked Bobby.

"The gentleman concerned was extremely unreasonable," replied Castiel.

"How unreasonable?" enquired Alistair solicitously.

"Three fingers and half an ear," said Castiel.

"Huh. Unreasonable, and stupid too," mused Crowley, "Thanks be that he's working for the opposition."

"Are you currently studying, Sam?" asked Castiel.

"I'm going to introduce him to some old friends at Cambridge," said Alistair.

"I'm going to show him around Oxford," Crowley piped up.

"He can minor in Classics at Cambridge," Alistair went on, "Which will be invaluable in this line of work."

"You just have sour grapes because Dean didn't want to follow you to your alma mater," Crowley snarked.

"You have sour grapes because he didn't want to study medicine," Alistair replied serenely, counting his matches.

"I shall have Gedda pass gas in your general direction," sniffed Doc Crowley.

"He's staying right here, and going to an Ivy League," John said firmly.

"How wonderful it must be to have your future all mapped out for you, Sam," observed Castiel wryly. "However, I will point out that it could be worse; my own parents wanted me to follow my grandfather and father into proctology."

"Well, that's kind of what you do, right?" Dean opined, "You bend people over and make 'em take it up the ass, only figuratively instead of literally."

"And I don't have to wear gloves unless things are going to get really messy," agreed Castiel. He peered at the table. "Are we playing poker?" he asked. "Matches are not a good idea if Dean is playing. Have you considered peanuts, or maybe getting some pasta shapes from the kitchen?"

****...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ****

It was so... normal, in a bizarre way. Meg kept them supplied with drinks and snacks as, in line with Doc's prediction, Castiel slowly but surely depleted everybody else's matches.

_Like vacationing at home_, observed Sam's brain, _With the Addams family. Or the Manson family. Hey, I signed up for water-skiing, can we water-ski or should I do the beginners' lesson?_

"It's a hazard of playin' with a professional weasel, I suppose," sighed Bobby as he folded.

"Botox," suggested Crowley, "You could immobilise your face with botox, and maybe that would help."

"Next time, I might just wear a balaklava," commented Andy, eyeing his cards with barely concealed despair. "Or maybe a paper bag."

"Wouldn't botox be a bit drastic?" asked Sam dubiously, "I mean, injecting stuff that's essentially a lethal bacterial poison into your face, just to win a game of poker?"

"I have known individuals to resort to such measures prior to me speaking to them," Castiel raked in another pot.

"What do you do then?" asked John.

"Get a bigger blade," Castiel replied matter-of-factly. "Dean, stop trying to split that match."

"Your lady friend is a bit shy, isn't she?" commented John to Andy.

Andy smiled. "Well, it's all still pretty new to her," he explained. "She only got bitten a few months ago, and she's not confident with it yet."

"You think she'll learn enough to use it?" asked Bobby.

"I think so," nodded Andy, "And if she doesn't, it probably doesn't make much difference; she's damned good with her fists. Ex military. Medic background. Damned useful."

"Excellent!" beamed Doc Crowley, "Next time one of you pillocks gets shot, stabbed or otherwise anatomically discombobulated, I will have a capable assistant who can not only help me, but can punch you repeatedly with great force for insubordination."

I thought you disapproved of senseless violence?" commented John.

"I would far rather use the intellect that evolution has granted me to secure the co-operation of a patient," nodded Crowley, "But sometimes, when dealing with one of you lot, rational appeal to reason does not work, and in order to get the message across, I am forced to, how shall I put it..."

"Go for a bigger blade?" suggested Castiel.

"Exactly."

"So, how did you and Ronnie meet?" asked Sam without thinking.

Andy's face clouded. "Uh, don't call her that," he warned, "It's the nickname she had as a kid. She hates it. Says it's a boy's name, and she doesn't like to be reminded that she looks kind of, well, not terribly feminine." He smiled a little sadly. "She's so beautiful when she shifts, though, she's lithe, and graceful, really tall for a female."

"Do werewolves play basketball?" deadpanned Castiel, and they all laughed.

"I was tracking down a complete bastard who'd tried to pull a swifty on Bobby," Andy told Sam, "And he was after her. Wanted her pelt. Mongrel named Croydon. Worthless piece of shit."

"Actually, no," grinned Bobby, "Because in the end, after you bit him, his skin brought in more than three hundred grand." There were generalised snorts of laughter at that.

"Croydon?" Castiel looked mildly surprised. "I don't suppose you ran into his charming companion Burke?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," Andy smiled.

"And?" prompted Dean.

"Well," Andy continued, "After she helped me skin Croydon, and I tell you what, she did most of the work without flinching, she's an artist and doesn't know it, I thought, 'Here's a woman I want to impress', so I said, 'I'd really like to take you out to dinner'..."

The company laughed out loud at that.

"...It's a terrible cliché, I know," Andy looked sheepish, "But it was like something out of a teen rom com. It was just going to be two new friends getting a bite to eat, then, well, we ran down Burke, our eyes met over his intestines, and she snarled and cuffed me on the ear, so I pulled out his heart and offered it to her, she devoured it without even chewing, then ran at me backwards..."

_I had no idea that werewolves could be so tenderly amorous,_ mused Sam's brain, _Offering your partner somebody else's heart as well as your own._

"That's so romantic," sighed Dean happily, "It's just wonderful when you meet the right girl, and you just know that she's the one. I'm so happy for you, Andy."

"Never picked you for the sentimental type, Andy," John smiled, "But I'm really glad."

"Me either," Andy grinned, "I'd read about the pair-bonding thing, but never knew how strong it would be. It's like every time I look at her, I wanna go kill someone and drag 'em back to the den for her. And watching her bring down some guy with a single swipe, it's like she's dancing. I'll never get tired of seeing that. She even makes disarticulating a rib cage sexy."

There were general murmurs of assent and congratulations for Andy's newfound pair-bonded bliss.

"It's something very primal," nodded Doc Crowley, "The sight of a woman eating and enjoying her food is actually very attractive to many men."

"Definitely," agreed John, "You don't want to go out with a woman, and see her picking at a salad, and going, 'Oh, I can't eat too much, I don't want to get fat', it's a mood killer."

"A woman who eats with gusto may do... other things with gusto," smiled Castiel.

_It does raise an interesting point,_ mused Sam's brain, _If you're a self-aware werewolf, and you eat somebody, does that make you a cannibal? Or just a carnivore? Werewolf, wendigo, they both start with 'w'. Sounds pretty romantic, doesn't it? 'Hey, do you like to eat Chinese?' 'Oh, yes, but the little red books disagree with me. Maybe I should go tubing instead. You like tubing? What about parasailing? I can still hold a drink and do that, right?_

"So," Bobby went on casually, "Everything all right in the, er, kennel after dark?"

Andy wore a feral grin. "Yeah, provided I don't want to sleep," he chuckled, "She does this thing..."

Gah!" yelped Dean, "Too much information!"

"You might learn something," suggested Castiel. "I'll bet they leave the lights on."

"A gentleman would not discuss that sort of thing," sniffed Dean with disdain.

"I aint no gentleman, mate," Andy just grinned wider. "Just ask Doc, he'll tell you what an oik I am."

"There are not enough hours in a single day," muttered Crowley, frowning at his cards in disgust. "I swear, Singer, you are doing this to me on purpose."

"Do gamblers have a patron saint?" asked John. "Maybe you could try a heavenly petition."

"Saint Cayetano," Alistair said.

"Yeah?" John looked impressed. "Wish I'd known. How did he die, then?"

"No idea," replied Alistair, "Torn to pieces by a card shark, perhaps?"

"Broken on the roulette wheel?" wondered Castiel.

"He'll do," said Crowley, crossing himself. "Right. Dear Saint Cayetano, grant me succour, for miserable swindling arseholes do vex me mightily..."

"Yeah, language like that will really win him to your side," nodded Bobby.

"Ignore the miserable swindling arsehole, and hear my plea," Crowley waved his hands in the air. "Show me a sign, O Saint Cayetano!"

With that, the lights went out.

"Balls," muttered Bobby.

****...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ****

It was quickly ascertained that it was a simple power failure, caused no doubt by freeze-thaw cycles in the electricity grid. Bobby ordered a dozen pizzas, seeing as Meg couldn't use the kitchen to cook dinner.

"What are we gonna do now?" Dean whined, with all the ennui of a ten-year-old whose gaming platform has run out of power.

"We'll have to huddle together for warmth," sniggered Jo, sneaking an arm around him as Ruby snorted with amusement.

"When I was your age, we had to make our own entertainment," declared Alistair.

"I vote for that!" trilled Jo. In the dim light, nobody saw exactly what she did, but Dean squawked.

Alistair pulled the cover off what proved to be an elderly upright piano of dubious tuning, and he and Crowley performed a selection of operetta female roles in the style of Hinge and Bracket, getting enormous applause for their interpretation of 'Three Little Maids' and receiving encore calls for Rossini's 'cat duet'.

"That right there," humphed John, "Is why my boy is not goin' to any Limey university."

"The university revue, and the persona of the panto dame, have a long and honourable history in Old Blighty," defended Alistair.

"There's nothing honourable about men wearing dresses," John griped.

"Tell that to the Scots," pointed out Mary.

After John called for a definite change of tone, a guitar was produced from somewhere, and Andy regaled them with a song called 'Rootin' in the back of the ute'.

"It appears that in his native dialect, the verb 'to root' has nothing to do with cheering a sporting favourite on to victory," observed Castiel dryly.

_Songs to entertain the family during a power out_, mused Sam's brain, _It's all so happy and wholesome, I may just throw up. It's like 'The Partridge Family', but with the cast of 'Oz'. There's limbo on the beach tonight._

"Sam, honey?" Mary cut into his thoughts with a concerned voice. "Are you all right?"

"Er, yeah," he answered, "I guess I'm just tired."

"He's still recovering," Dean said, "And meeting so many people has probably been confronting for him. You should probably go to bed, Sam. You're looking a bit pale."

"No, I'm fine, really," Sam protested.

Dean was having none of it. "You still need to take it easy," he insisted. "Sam will be going to bed now, everybody." There was a chorus of 'Night, Sam's as Dean took him firmly by the elbow, and steered him towards the stairs. "But, nothing," he said firmly. "You look tired. You need to get laid down, Sam. Come on, our room's been redone since you saw it last."

Sam looked thoughtful as Dean propelled him upstairs. "Was there a water mark on one of the walls?" he asked, "It looked like a..."

"Yeah, that's been painted over," Dean told him hurriedly.

The room was in the same general location in Bobby's house, but...

"Er, was it always this... roomy?" Sam asked, eyeing the two king singles.

"Oh, the beds are new," sighed Dean. "Bobby insisted on having two in here. I think he believed that one day, you'd come back to us. And it made me feel better too, thinking that if you ever came back, there would be somewhere for you, and you'd know we hadn't forgotten about you. For years after... I used to tuck Gabriel into your bed whenever we were here..." he paused and wiped his eyes, as Sam saw that Gabriel was indeed waiting for him on the bed farther from the door. "Anyway, go have a shower, and go to bed," he instructed, "Remember what I said about towels on the floor." He gave Sam a shove in the direction of what he thought was a closet door, which turned out to lead to one of the most spectacular en suites Sam had ever seen.

He said as much to Dean twenty minutes later, when his big brother brought him cocoa and his pills, and then fussed around him, fluffing his pillow, arranging his bedclothes and tucking Gabriel in beside him. "Oh, that," Dean rolled his eyes. "I'll never get used to the glass shower screen – I wanted frosted panels at least. It's like getting dressed with the curtains open, or showering in a shop front. Anyway, I'll be up soon, too, it's been a long day," he yawned. "But Jimi will be here," he indicated the dog, who was making himself confortable on Dean's bed, "And you're completely safe. You need anything else?"

"Er, no, I'm good," Sam told him, snuggling obediently under the covers. The sheets were heavy cotton, and smelled of drying outside in the sun. The mattress was firm, and long enough for him to stretch out. The pillow was fluffy and soft. As conditioned to crappy motels as he was, he had no idea whether he'd actually be able to sleep in such a comfy bed.

_But we'll give it the ol' college try,_ affirmed his brain_. If crime doesn't pay, at the very least, it gets you a larger bathroom, an assisted flush toilet and a much better quality of linen. I think this might be Egyptian cotton. When was the last time you slept on anything with a thread count above room temperature?_

"Okay, then," smiled Dean, actually reaching down to ruffle Sam's hair, "Just call if you do." He paused at the door to turn off the light. "I still can't believe that you're here with us," he smiled, "This is going to be the best Thanksgiving ever! Goodnight, bro."

"Yeah, goodnight, Dean," replied Sam, wondering whether it was funny or tragic that he could quite possibly say the same thing.

* * *

><p>If you are not familiar with those two venerable songstresses Dr Evadne Hinge and Dame Hilda Bracket, you can see a sampling of their work at:<p>

http**COLONSLASHSLASH** www**DOT** youtube**DOT **com/watch?v=MT-aqZLBpQc

And indeed many other examples of their fine work are on YouChoob. Just imagine Alistair and Crowley doing that.

And for our Merkin cousins who are probably not familiar with the great Australian tradition of having sex in the bed of the pick-up (rootin' in the back of the ute) – I don't know whether it's a great Merkin tradition – the song in question can be viewed here:

http**COLONSLASHSLASH** www**DOT** youtube**DOT** com/watch?v=nb5MhX3cbsM

If you decide to follow any other links to Kevin Bloody Wilson songs, be warned – his lyrics are frequently not just extremely ripe, but on the turn; most of his stuff is not safe for work. Including the Santa Claus song. Especially the Santa Claus song.

Reviews are the Unexpectedly Luxurious En Suite In The Guest Room Of Life! (Oh, all right, with a bathing Winchester and a full length glass shower screen, if you must.)


	13. Chapter 13

I'm afrain that FFN is still just a leetle bit buggy, with phantom updates, delayed reviews and the occasional hiccup with logging in, so I suppose we all just have to be patient.

As to whether I have myself rooted in the back of the ute, I neither confirm nor deny. I will just say that I haven't driven one for twenty years now, although my husband had one when he was courting me...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen<strong>

"Oh, bugger!"

When Sam woke up – and he was _not_ cuddling Gabriel, he was just resting his arm on the bear – it was to the dulcet tones of Doc Crowley using intemperate language. Yawning, he got out of bed, and made his way to the window, where he saw Crowley and Alistair double teaming a large and very full wood box towards the house. Crowley had, apparently, just dropped his end on his foot.

"I told you to slow down," cautioned Alistair. "It's not sensible, at your age."

"My age?" bristled Crowley, "I'm more than ten years younger than you!"

"Maybe, but I'm ageing more gracefully," Alistair shrugged, picking up his end of the box again.

"What?" snorted Crowley, "You're just about entirely grey!"

"At least I still have most of my hair, and I'm more than ten years older than you," Alistair retorted a little smugly. "You'll be completely bald by the time you're my age."

"Baldness is a result of high testosterone," Crowley asserted. "They say that if you go thin in front, you're a thinker, and if you go thin on top, you're highly sexual. So I'm a thinker, and highly sexual."

"Either that, or you just think you're sexy," sniggered Alistair. "Ow! Be careful!"

They made their way out of earshot, still bickering like a pair of old maiden aunts, as Sam dressed and headed downstairs.

"Morning, Sammy!" chirped Dean, disappearing into the kitchen. "Mooooom!" he yelled, "Sam's up!"

Mary appeared from the kitchen, and motioned to him to sit down. "How are you doing, sweetie?" she asked with motherly concern, "We let you sleep," she forestalled him, "Because we want you to be able to enjoy today! I'll bring your breakfast out."

"Er, thanks, Mom," he smiled. She reappeared moments later, with Dean following, carrying a mug carefully as if it was a precious relic.

"He's been playing with Bobby's new coffee machine for the last several weeks," Mary rolled her eyes. "Watching him play with the milk frother is like watching a toddler with a bubble gun."

"Hey, I'm really good at it," Dean defended himself, "I put hazelnut syrup in it for you, that stuff is totally awesome!"

"Er, thanks, bro," Sam replied uncertainly, regarding the drink. It had a lopsided froth art decal on the top of it. "Er, why is there an... elephant drawn on it?"

"It's meant to be a turkey," Dean informed him resignedly, "I've been practising, but I can't get it quite right. Bobby thought his looked like Cthulu. Andy thought his looked like a vulture. Doc thought his looked like an inflamed appendix. Cas thought his looked like a particularly talented pole dancer..."

"You just eat your breakfast, honey," Mary brushed a stray strand of Sam's hair out of his face.

"Today is gonna be great, Sammy!" Dean smiled happily, clapping his little brother on the shoulder before following their mother out of the room.

_Behold Dean, Lord of the Latte,_ mused Sam's brain, _Can things get any weirder?_

Sam looked at the stack of pancakes before him. A smiley face was drawn on the top, in cream and syrup. It had sideburns.

It certainly held the potential to be one of the more interesting Thanksgivings he'd ever experienced.

******...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ******

The household seemed to be in a state of controlled uproar. Alistair and Crowley were still bickering as they wrangled the wood box.

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean and Castiel followed later, carrying chairs. "Nuh-uh," Dean went on firmly, taking Sam's plate from his hands, "Leave that here," he put it down on the living room table.

"Do not attempt to enter the kitchen uninvited today, Sam," cautioned Castiel, "For the womenfolk within undertake strange, arcane rituals of preparation, which man ought not wot of. Trespass not, lest you find an intimate part of your anatomy removed and presented as an entree."

"At the very least, you will get a snap with a dishcloth that you won't forget in a hurry," grunted Alistair, shuffling backwards with the wood box.

"Fortunately, the booze is out here," Crowley reassured him, staggering past, "And I happen to have some very good single malt stashed in the den for laterrrrOW! Watch it, you daft old goat!"

"Well, I'm going backwards," griped Alistair, "Technically, you're cox, so you are supposed to be steering."

There was a loud thump from upstairs, and what sounded like a large animal growling. Five pairs of eyes swivelled to the ceiling.

"Either Bobby has the world's biggest raccoon in the attic..." began Sam.

"No raccoons," said Castiel, "Although a certain school of thought contends that Bobby has bats in the belfry."

"Oh, it's just Andy," said Alistair dismissively, "He went up there with John to get the table extension."

"It's the same thing every year," sighed Doc, "It's two whacking great pieces of hardwood timber, they weigh a ton, but barely fit through the attic hatch. Bobby won't have it stored in the shed, with the chairs, and there's no room for two people to manoeuvre it up there, so Andy kind of has to lift it, while John steers it..."

A creative curse that would've made John's sergeant blush drifted downstairs.

"Every year they threaten to drop it through the ceiling," confided Dean, "Or set fire to it."

"Ah, here they are now," smiled Doc, "Everything all right lads?"

The hulking seven-foot monster stalked past, the pieces of timber hoisted to one shoulder, with a look that could only be described as 'peeved' on its scarred face.

"Just fucking peachy," scowled John, carefully waggling the end of the timbers to get around the corner, "This is the year we torch this fucking thing, next year we can sit on a damned picnic rug..."

"I heard that," called Bobby from what would later transpire to be a large dining room, "I find a single claw mark on them, Fluffy, and I'll have your hide to take pictures of the munchkins on when the first honorary grandkids come along."

Seeking a place to hide from the organised chaos enveloping Bobby's place, Sam stayed in the living room, and started up his laptop. He might as well try to make some progress on what the hell was happening, he thought. He opened the notes he'd been making about the disappearences when he'd fallen down the rabbit hole. There was still nothing he could see that connected them...

_Apart from the fact that they all disappeared_, commented his brain_. That's actually a pretty big connection, by itself. Have you considered that they might have fallen down their own rabbit holes?_

Sam suddenly sat still, wondering why he hadn't thought of that before.

_Because I was concussed, probably_, suggested his brain, _And then I went on vacation. I was going to think about that, wasn't I? Moira Parker. I was trying to remember if I'd heard of her before. Then you were distracted by the family that's so close to ideal, if just a little bloodthirsty, and I was distracted by the thought of lounging contentedly on a golden beach, beneath shady palm trees, and calling languidly for another daiquiri._

There was the sound of female voices raised in outrage, the sharp snapping of dishcloth, and a squawk, as Dean darted out of the kitchen, grinning unrepentantly as he made a quick getaway with his swag.

"Dean, did you trespass on the Secret Women's Business?" asked Sam.

"Totally worth it," Dean told him happily, rubbing his ass, "I got cupcakes! You want one?" He put down his haul. "Hey, whatcha doing?"

"Oh, I'm looking at some notes I made researching my last Hunt," Sam replied, thinking that honesty was probably the best policy, "I'd only just started. Still trying to find a connection between all the disappeared people. The only thing they have in common was that they disappeared."

Dean sat beside him. "You're supposed to be taking it easy with the screen time," he chided fondly. "Here, let me. You got a list of names?" He pulled the laptop towards himself, and frowned at the desktop. "What the... 'Porn'? 'Other Porn'? Other Other Porn'?" He shot a look of distaste and disappointment at his brother. "Jeez, Sam, you're a big boy, but an educated guy ought to have a better idea of just how degrading to women that stuff is..."

"If you check, you'll see they're mostly empty," Sam said quickly, "It's my... Hunt buddy. He likes to clog up my machine with that crap. I'm forever deleting it, but he manages to find more, just as quickly. I think he does it largely to bug me."

Dean smiled in comprehension. "Oh, yeah, Cas does the same thing to me. Ruby thinks it's hilarious, but, well, it's just so distasteful." His mouth drew into a scowl of disapproval. "He subscribed me to this crap called 'Busty Asian Beauties', which is just totally offensive, being pornographic as well as shamelessly pandering to appalling stereotypes about Asian women, and that's just the tame stuff." His hands flew over the keyboard. "You still got his browsing history?"

"I delete it as often as I remember to," Sam said.

"Never mind, we can still find it in the cache," Dean muttered. "Aha!" He scanned the list of sites. "I wrote a short script to redirect this stuff, and snuck it onto Castiel's machine," he told Sam, "I can download if for you, if you like."

"You... wrote a script?" Sam echoed incredulously.

"Oh, yeah, it drove Cas nuts!" Dean grinned. "Every time he typed 'pussy', it directed him to the Cheezburger network. He typed 'tits', he got directed to bird-watching sites. 'Chick' or 'cock' took him to poultry husbandry. 'Horny' returned hits for treatment of foot calluses and corns. 'Doggy style' ran a search for Etsy stores doing clothing for pets. 'Fetish' got anthropological studies of ancient societies that attributed supernatural powers to inanimate objects. 'Bondage' led to essays on the anti-slavery movement prior to the Civil War. And 'sex' got him lists of peer-reviewed articles on gamete research. It'll totally mess with your bud's head!" Dean grinned as he went about installing the program.

"Er, thanks, bro," Sam smiled widely, "That sounds awesome. I should probably have done something similar ages ago."

"It took a while to get right," Dean conceded, "But the look on Cas's face was totally worth it."

Jo, Ruby and Veronica came out of the kitchen, chattering and giggling, with arms full of napery, cutlery and crockery. "Meg says if you try to steal any more cupcakes, she'll flay the flesh from your bones and feed it to Doc's dog," reported Ruby, "And she has the electric knife plugged in."

Sam watched the preparations from the relative safety of the living room. Controlled uproar gradually descended into noisy chaos, with plenty of yelling, laughing, and the occasional squawk as Jo managed to grab Dean's ass again. It was like having a bunch of pre-schoolers stuck inside on a rainy day.

Bobby had finally had enough when a touch football match broke out, then turned into a wrestling match when, unable to grab the actual 'ball' (an extremely ugly vase), Andy and John simply picked a howling Doc Crowley up and used him as a battering ram to mow down the opposition.

"ENOUGH!" Bobby bellowed, glaring at his assembled 'family'. "You idjits got energy to burn, take it outside! I think it might be time for..."

"FAMILY FIGHT CLUB!" chorused most of the assembly enthusiastically.

"What the hell?" asked Sam.

"Oh, we do this every year!" Jo said, clapping her hands with glee.

"It's a family tradition," confirmed Dean, "It's great fun!"

"It's barbaric, is what it is," snapped Doc Crowley, "And I must protest in the strongest terms, Bobby!"

"I must support my colleague on this matter," nodded Alistair, "I spent a great deal of time and effort educating that brain, Dean, and will not willingly see it bounced around inside your skull..."

"Outside!" commanded Bobby, as the whooping group rushed to obey, with Crowley and Alistair bringing up the rear and keeping up a litany of disapproval.

Once they were all on the porch, Bobby cleared his throat. "All right," he began, "For those who haven't joined us for a family occasion before, this is a little game we like to play on family occasions, to work up an appetite. Now, the first rule of Family Fight Club is..."

"Everybody talks about Family Fight Club!" the throng recited.

"Uh-huh," nodded Bobby, "The second rule is..."

"EVERYBODY talks about Family Fight Club!" they chanted, laughing.

"Rule three..."

"There is no... rule three!" they whooped.

"You are barbarians, all of you," humphed Doc, "I forbid Sam to participate. They boy is recovering from a concussion as it is..."

"That's sensible," nodded Bobby, "You sit this out, Sam, come Christmas, you'll get your turn. Now, who's gonna kick whose ass first?"

It turned out that Bobby's extended family thoroughly enjoyed beating the crap out of each other, whilst the others watched and enthusiastically cheered on both combatants. First of all, John called out Bobby, who obliged, warning John that age and treachery were a potent combination.

They didn't hold back, slugging it out, and both drawing blood until John knocked Bobby on his ass, and Bobby then used a scissor kick to bring John down flat on his back, winding him. The audience clapped and cheered as they helped each other up, while Doc went to fetch his bag, and Alistair kept up a litany of complaint about the Neanderthal nature of such displays of fisticuffs.

Ellen and Mary were next, grinningly beating hell out of each other until Mary had a split lip, Ellen had a black eye, and they could no longer stop laughing long enough to continue.

"I'm going in to town tomorrow," Mary told John, "And I'm going to tell everybody that you beat me up."

"Right, like anybody is going to believe that," John smiled, put an arm around her waist and drew her in for a kiss. "The day I can beat you up is the day I salt and burn you."

"And don't you forget it, mister," she smiled lovingly up at him.

Next, with an encouraging nod from Andy, Veronica hesitantly followed Ruby down the steps to the ground. Dean and Castiel alternately squealed 'Team Edward!' or 'Team Jacob!' in high voices, prompting Ruby to flip them off and Veronica to smile shyly.

"Show these idjits how it's really done, ladies," instructed Bobby, and so they did.

Veronica was a little hesitant at first, until Ruby landed a solid punch to her jaw. "Come on," she grinned, "You hit like a girl!" Veronica smiled back, and growled. Both women let their fangs descend, and went for it.

"Team Edward! Team Edward!" squealed Dean, "Oh, vampires are so sexy!"

"Team Jacob! Go Team Jacob!" trilled Castiel, "Take your shirt off!"

"Carry me up a tree!" warbled Dean.

"Show us your tatts!" shrieked Castiel.

"I must protest at this shameless display of utterly unladylike conduct!" spluttered Alistair.

"If you two twats break anything, I will say 'I told you so', repeatedly," grumbled Doc as he tended to Ellen.

The vampire and the werewolf traded blows that would've felled a human opponent, as the spectators egged them on. When Bobby deemed that enough blood had been shed, he called time. Ruby hugged Veronica, who smiled a beautiful smile – Dean sighed when he caught the doting look on Andy's face – and the audience cheered and applauded, and took turns to hug her, and welcome her into the family.

Sam watched with a combination of fascination and queasiness. He had sparred with Dean, and sometimes his father, from a young age, but it had been training, not the sort of full contact knock-down drag-out fighting he was seeing. Those fights he'd had occasionally with Dean, and it had always been when they were at each other's throats, not as some strange expression of affection and togetherness.

"Don't feel left out, Sam," Castiel offered consolingly, "You will have your turn when you are fully recovered."

"Do, er, you, do the, um, Family Fight Club?" asked Sam.

Castiel shook his head. "I find it best to abstain," he replied.

"So, Fluffy," Dean nudged Andy with an elbow, "You feel like getting your hairy butt kicked?"

"Not by you, puny human," the werewolf grinned back. "It's no fun if I gotta hold back."

"Ooooooooooooooh," chorused the clan knowingly.

"Them's fightin' words," observed Bobby, "You gonna let him talk to you like that?"

"He can talk all he wants," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "He's more full of crap than a septic tank."

"Oooooooooooooh!" went the extended tribe again.

"The last guy who trash talked me, I pulled his heart out, and gave it to my mate," Andy chuckled.

"Well, call me The Plumber," replied Dean, "Because I am the guy who can beat the shit out of you."

"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!" chanted the family enthusiastically. Grinning at each other, Andy and Dean began to roll up their sleeves.

"Er, isn't this a bad idea?" Sam said worriedly, "I mean, Dean's a human, and Andy's a werewolf. An Old North werewolf. And a damned big one. It's hardly a fair contest. A werewolf and a vampire, all right, maybe a more even match, but a werewolf and a human..."

"There is no need to be concerned, Sam," Castiel reassured him, "Dean and Andy have fought before on these family occasions. It is just a bit of fun between good friends."

"But... Andy will take his head off!" protested Sam.

"He will not," Castiel smiled, pulling a knife from under his trench coat. "Dean is the son of John and Mary Winchester, and under certain circumstances, he is more than capable of giving Andy an honest bout."

With that, he pushed up his sleeve, and drew the blade across his forearm. "Here you are," he offered his arm to Dean, who smiled, and latched onto the cut with his mouth, sucking greedily at the blood. Castiel watched dotingly, then his eyes bled to completely black as he turned back to the gathering. "A bottle of single malt Scotch says that Dean draws first blood."

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Shirtless, Slightly-Roughed-Up, Bleeding-Just-A-Little-Bit Winchester Of Your Choice Needing Tending on the Porch Of Life! (Or cupcakes. Reviews are like cupcakes, too - I can't stop at just one.)<p> 


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

_The question here,_ mused Sam's brain, _Is whether I've had too many daiquiris, or not enough..._

"What the _fuck_?" Sam couldn't help the comment that burst from him. "Cas is a fucking _demon_? !"

"Well, yes, I am a demon," Castiel said calmly, "And as for fucking, well, modesty forbids me to go into too much detail." Dean looked up from his arm with an expression that clearly communicated his wish that Castiel keep any prurient details to himself. "Also, Dean is giving me the expression that I think of as Cat's Ass Face Of Disapproval Number Six, which is the one that means 'I SO Do Not Want To Hear The Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests'."

"We should've explained this," Mary said apologetically, "It's okay, honey," she smiled reassuringly at Sam, "He may be a demon now, but he is family. Dean," she frowned at her elder son, "Don't slurp, were you raised in a pig sty?"

"Cas is my lawyer, Sam," Bobby explained matter-of-factly, gazing fondly at Castiel. "More than that, he's one of us. Family don't end with blood, boy. When he died, it was a terrible loss to us all."

"Your brother was devastated," Ruby told him sadly. "We all were. But losing his best friend was particularly hard on Dean."

"You can't imagine how happy we all were when he came back to us," sighed Ellen, also looking at Castiel fondly. "I think we all cried for a week."

"A fortnight," corrected Alistair.

Doc Crowley nodded in agreement. "It was worse than the end of 'Toy Story 3'."

"But... how?" stuttered Sam.

"I'm a lawyer, Sam," Castiel smiled gently. "I can talk my way out of anything. Escaping from Hell was a walk in the park compared to some of the legal minefields I've had to negotiate in the course of dealing with Bobby's affairs."

"Why would a demon come back to his... human, mostly, family?" challenged Sam.

Castiel gave Sam a look as if he was an indulgent uncle explaining something to a young child. "Because there is nowhere on earth I would rather be," he answered, smiling warmly at Dean as Sam's brother let go of the lawyer's arm. "Dean is my best friend, and this is my family. Being here, with him, and working for Bobby, is the most fun I could possibly have whilst keeping all my clothes on." Dean once again favoured Castiel with a huff and an indignant scowl. "Ah, and there we have Cat's Ass Face Of Disapproval Number Three, which is 'I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often'..."

"Why the hell is Dean drinking demon blood?" demanded Sam. "That shit can mess you up really badly!"

"My research has led me to conclude that it can be addictive, under certain circumstances, if consumed in large amounts at regular intervals," nodded Doc Crowley. "This is something that Dean only does occasionally. Usually at these occasions, when the more barbaric members of our happy little tribe decide that pummelling each other bloody is an amusing way to pass the morning. Frankly, I'd be happier for him to drink it more often, if he would just refrain from these deplorable exhibitions of physical brutality, all in the name of some perverted definition of 'fun'..."

"We think it might be to do with the night that Azazel came to your nursery," Mary explained. "Dean raised the alarm, and he went in fighting. He bit that asshole hard enough to draw blood." She looked lovingly at her firstborn. "He was just absolutely livid at the thought that somebody might be trying to hurt you."

"Being exposed to demon blood at such a young age appears to have affected him," Castiel continued. "We found out by accident; shortly after I'd returned. We were on a job, and after I was shot, some of my blood sprayed into his mouth. We discovered the effects when he accidentally punched through the sternum of the man responsible..."

"I was impressed," nodded Andy, "Usually, that's my party trick. Of course, he was too sissy to pull the heart out and eat it..."

"Oh, good grief," grimaced Doc Crowley, "And you wonder why I call you a complete oik..."

"You rarely eat them any more, Andy," Dean smiled knowingly, "You take them home to Veronica now."

"You great big soppy old puppy dog!" grinned Ellen, elbowing Andy as he blushed.

"I think it's really romantic that he's finally been housebroken," declared Jo.

"Oh, I remember that night," chortled John. "When Dean came home, I asked him to grab me a beer while he was in the kitchen, and he put the refrigerator door through the wall. Well, didn't your mother give us both holy hell for that! We spent the weekend patching and repainting that wall, on pain of pain." He looked thoughtful. "So, technically, that's _another_ weekend I lost because of Azazel. That asshole!" He paused. "Is there any way we can, you know, reconstitute him, summon him back, whatever, so I can stick him in a devil's trap and throw rocks at him?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "You are never going to let that go, are you?" she snorted with amusement. "Some men take their football far too seriously." She frowned at Dean, then pulled a handkerchief from a pocket, and dabbed it delicately on her tongue before wiping a dribble of blood off his chin. "You look like a three-year-old who's eaten too much raspberry slurpee," she scolded.

"Mooooom," whined Dean with a roll of his eyes. "That's embarrassiiiiiing..."

"And you whine like one," Ruby commented, "Now get your ass down there, and entertain us."

"Hotcha hotcha hotcha," Dean waggled his eyebrows, then followed Andy down the steps off the porch.

Sam watched with wide eyes as they squared off.

_You know, I think I'll go with not enough daiquiris yet, _decided his brain._ Have the cabana boy bring me another. In fact, just bring me the ice bucket, a bottle of rum, a punnet of strawberries and a very long straw._

"I'll take that bet, Cas," Veronica said, as Dean and Andy traded jibes and the audience cheered and clapped.

"Sam, are you all right, honey?" Mary asked with concern. "You don't look well."

"He's an educated man," sniffed Alistair, "He's probably mortified by the shameless indulgence of the baser instincts that we are being forced to endure here."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, you old fart, he's a Winchester," Bobby grinned at him, "Stop bein' such a wet blanket, and let the youngsters have their fun."

"You are looking a bit pale, Sam," agreed Doc Crowley, "It might do you good to go and lie down for a little while before lunch."

"Come on, sweetie," Mary took his elbow, and he was gently but firmly double-teamed indoors. "Don't worry, we'll make sure you're awake in time for lunch!"

In something of a daze, Sam was led inside and settled on his bed under a quilt. Dean disapproving of porn he could deal with. Alistair and Crowley abhorring violence, he could cope. But Dean drinking demon blood to Hulk out so he could spar with a werewolf, that was going to take some adjustment...

_Actually, don't bother with the strawberries, _decided his brain. _Or the ice._

"There you go," Mary sat on the edge of his bed, tucked Gabriel in with him, smoothed the quilt down and stroked his hair lovingly. "Oh, Sam," she radiated maternal concern, "This has all been a bit overwhelming for you, hasn't it?"

"Um," he said.

"I know you've been away from us for a long time, but I'm still your mother," she smiled, "And I think maybe we need to talk about a couple of things. A couple of people. Specifically, Ruby and Cas." She looked at him steadily. "I can tell that you're not so happy about Dean being with Ruby. I see it each time you're in the same room as she is. And you're clearly not comfortable with Cas. Am I right?"

"Er, well, yeah, you're right," Sam admitted.

"Of course I am! I'm your Mom!" she laughed gently. "It's only natural, honey," she reassured him, "And it's okay. But I want you to know that neither of them has replaced you. Ruby is your brother's girlfriend. Cas is your brother's best friend. He loves them both dearly, but Dean never stopped missing you. None of us did, but Dean took it particularly hard. He blamed himself for losing you." She smiled. "Ruby wanted to talk about it on the way here. She's terrified that you won't like her, and she's worried sick about what that would do to Dean." She looked suddenly serious. "She says that if you can't accept her, she'll leave, because although she and Dean are very much in love, she won't come between you, because now you're back, you're too important to Dean. Give them a chance, Sam, please. Ruby is devoted to your brother, and Cas would wade through holy water for him. They mean so much to him. I hope you can at least try to be friendly with them." She must have seen the disbelief and confusion in his face. "Sam," her smile went from doting to predatory, "Do you really think either of them would still be walking around if I thought for a second that they represented the least threat to my eldest baby? To either of my baby boys?"

_She has a point,_ Sam's brain conceded. _Kicking a grizzly bear in the nuts whilst wearing a suit made of bacon is probably less suicidal than even looking like you might be a threat to one of Mama Winchester's cubs. Why do they put these damned paper umbrellas in these drinks? Has it never occurred to anyone that putting small, sharp sticks in glasses that inebriated people are bringing close to their faces is courting ocular disaster?_

A long wailing howl went up in the yard, followed by raucous laughter.

"Oh, dear," humphed Mary, "It sounds like your brother has done the thing with the nose, again."

"The thing with the nose?" echoed Sam.

"Well, at least I hope it's Andy's nose that he's grabbed," Mary added, "Whatever he's done, I'm going to make sure he washes his hands really well before we eat." She smiled, and laid a hand on his cheek. "You just rest for a little while, honey," she said lovingly, "And think about what I said, please?" She tucked the quilt around him. "You can always talk to Gabriel about it," she teased, "You used to tell him everything when you were little!"

"I did?" Sam totally did not cuddle Gabriel a little closer.

"Oh, he was a wonderful listener!" Mary laughed. "You'd tell him secrets, then you and Dean would play Interrogation, and you'd laugh your little head off, because no matter what Dean did to that bear, he never told your brother a thing! Oh, you were both just adorable!" She sighed. "It's so wonderful to have you home, Sam," she finished. "You rest now. I promise we won't start without you."

Sam watched his mother leave the room.

_It was probably started by an ocular surgeon, who was looking for a surreptitious way to generate business,_ postulated his brain.

He stared at the ceiling, and tried to take stock of the situation.

His family was a close-knit and loving extended tribe, his parents were the epitome of a happy marriage, his father was encouraging him to go back to school, his brother was an emotionally healthy guy with a loving girlfriend, a best friend who'd do anything for him, table manners and an aversion to porn, and they were all thrilled to have him return to the fold.

If you set aside the bit about them being highly accomplished and prosperous criminals and Dean being romantically entangled with a vampire and BFFs with a demonic lawyer – or a lawyerly demon – it was probably everything he could ever have wished for in a family.

_If Mary hadn't died, if Dad hadn't been consumed by a crusade of revenge, if Dean had settled down with one woman, if his family had been together, and happy..._

_What would it have been like?_

He paused for a moment, waiting to see if his brain had something to say about the niggling thought he'd been unable to grasp for long enough to examine closely.

_And I bet they're made in a sweatshop somewhere where children make them in sixteen hour shifts and get paid in dung, _was what it contributed.

Apparently not yet.

He sighed, and turned on his side. Gabriel the teddy bear beamed at him, blue and fluffy and forever comforting.

"I am totally not cuddling you," Sam mumbled into his fur, "And if you ever tell anyone, I will tear your wings off myself."

********...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ********

He must've dozed off, because later there was a light tapping on the door, and Dean's head appeared around it.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he grinned, "Are you ready to eat? Come on, that Yeti body has to need refuelling by now."

"Uh, sure," Sam sat up, threw off the quilt and stood up. "So, er, lead the way."

"You need someone to hold your hand?" Dean cocked an eyebrow.

Sam looked down. Then he quickly put Gabriel back on his bed, and followed Dean.

The dining room that existed in this Chez Singer was colourfully decorated, and held the dining table that had caused John and Andy so much grief. The table was laden with what looked like enough food to feed a small army: corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, lobster, half a dozen other vegetables, and an enormous turkey that looked like it might've been the result of a mating between an ostrich and a pterodactyl.

A babble of voices rose as the assembled company finished taking their seats. Ellen and Mary helped Meg to fit dishes onto the table, Alistair and Crowley were deep in conversation about something, while John and Andy shared a joke, and Castiel pantomimed a tragic love story between two of the paper turkey decorations on the table, which had Veronica and Jo in fits of laughter as Bobby rolled his eyes and humphed 'idjit' at him.

"Aha, here he is now," Bobby announced, as Dean shepherded Sam to a chair. "The wandering son has returned once more, so we can get this shindig underway... come on, sit down, ya idjits... a bit of quiet, people... a bit of quiet... SHADDAP!"

The tribe paused to jeer and blow raspberries at Bobby as he lowered his eyebrows and glared them all into silence. "So, if you chuckleheads can all just sit the hell down, we can eat," he went on. There was shuffling of seats and a couple of final raspberries as they all sat, with Bobby at the head of the table.

"This is a special Thanksgiving," he addressed the gathering, "Because we have the whole family together. And we are family; it don't end with blood. Today, not only do we have the whole family together, we have a couple of new faces joining us. We have Veronica, who has pair-bonded with Andy..."

"For her sins," interjected Dean, before his mother shushed at him.

"Indeed, and we welcome her, and we hope you'll think of us as your family too," he smiled at Veronica, who blushed and smiled back. "And if that aint happy enough," his doting expression fell on Sam, "We have had our lost boy come back to us, and for that, we are more thankful than words can express. Welcome home, Sam," he added simply, as the sentiment was echoed around the table. "And I'm sure that your Dad will appreciate havin' someone else to help him keep Dean in line..."

"For his sins," intoned Castiel gravely, as Dean squawked indignantly.

"So, I'm goin' to ask one of our senior citizens to say grace," Bobby finished, grinning at Alistair and Crowley.

"Crowley can do it," Alistair said airily, "He thinks he's sexy, you know."

"You are a stroppy old git," griped Crowley. "Very well, assume the position, children."

Around the table, hands clasped and heads bowed, as Crowley cleared his throat.

"Dear God," he began, "As we gather together today to enjoy the company of family, old, new, and returned to us, we would just like to say... SCREW YOU!"

"SCREW YOU!" cried the others merrily, raising glasses and cheering.

"Let the orgy of disgusting overconsumption begin!" ordered Bobby. And it did.

It was the sort of Thanksgiving he'd only ever dreamed about: Meg kept loading his plate as his mother instructed him to eat his vegetables, his brother shot him affectionate grins across the table, he caught his father beaming proudly at him, Alistair and Crowley hectored him about the selection of a suitable venue to continue his education like a couple of doting uncles, and he found himself blushing as his parents recounted childhood tales of exploits that he hadn't actually perpetrated ("And then, when he had chicken pox, he hated those oatmeal baths so much, he set the bathroom on fire!")

_What would it have been like?_

It would have been very much like this, he decided. Give or take a few unnatural abominations and bouts of juvenile arson.

Eventually, the occasion appeared to be winding down over pieces of the biggest, tastiest pumpkin pie he'd ever seen. Dean was ecstatic that he was finally permitted to eat cupcakes.

"Ah, the onset of post-prandial somnolescence is imminent," intoned Crowley sagely with a yawn.

"Did he just say something in Martian?" asked Andy.

"What he means is that it's nearly time for a post-lunch nap," translated Alistair, "Now, Doc, I believe there was some mention of a bottle of something respectable stashed away?"

Crowley grumblingly pushed himself away from the table and headed for the mantel, as Dean cleared his throat, looking nervous. "Actually, while everybody is here," he began, "I wonder if I could have your attention for just a minute or so...?"

The assembled tribe burbled into silence. Dean shifted nervously again. "Uh, there's something I've been wanting to say," he began, "But I've been undecided when and where to say it. There didn't seem to be a right time, but, uh, now we're all here, and I've got my whole family here, and my brother is back, I think this is as good a time as any, and so, uh..."

"Dean," John smiled, "At this rate, it's going to be Christmas before you get around to saying whatever you have to say."

"Right, right," agreed Dean, "I should, uh, well, it's kind of, er..."

"Don't tell me," said Castiel, "You've decided you want to live as a woman?"

"You're going to join a monastery?" suggested Andy.

"You're going to live as a woman, then join a convent?" prompted Castiel.

"You're a Justin Bieber fan, and you can't go on living this double life of shame and self-loathing?" said Andy.

"You want to get a tattoo of Roseanne Barr on your ass, and you want your family's blessing?" said Castiel.

"You have a tattoo of Roseanne Barr on your arse, and you want your family's blessing to get rid of it?" Andy queried. "Mate, you don't even have to ask, we'll all chip in and pay for the skin grafts..."

"We'll man the sandblaster, even," agreed Castiel. "No? You found religion?"

"You found Elvis?" said Andy.

"Dean," Ruby slapped him playfully on the arm, "Whatever it is, just spit it out, or these two idiots will be at it all day."

"Okay, you're right, just spit it out." Dean nodded in agreement, took a deep breath and stood up. "I need your help for this," he told her.

"Er, okaaaaaay," she replied, turning in her seat, "What do I have to do?"

"Just sit there," he replied.

For a moment, Dean appeared to be debating with himself as to what to say next, but decided to go with the idea of just spitting it out.

He fished briefly in his pocket, then went down on one knee in front of Ruby, offering her a tiny box.

"Here it is, then. Ruby, will you marry me?"

* * *

><p><strong>Dean (crossing arms and doing twitchy top lip thing he does when he's really angry):<strong> I'm not going out there like this.

**Sam (pouting and stamping foot):** Neither am I.

**Lampito:** Come on out, fellas, it's Easter! Easter means cuddly bunnies!

**Dean:** I don't feel like a cuddly bunny.

**Lampito:** A certain school of thought would say that you do look like a cuddly bunny.

**Sam:** Making us wear rabbit ears and sparkly briefs does not make us cuddly bunnies!

**Dean:** And the fluffy tail thing, it's just demeaning.

**Lampito:** It could be worse.

**Sam:** How could it be worse?

**Lampito:** You could be a hot cross bun, wearing nothing but a couple of stripes of brown paint.

**Sam and Dean: **Aaaaaaargh!

**Lampito:** All right, all right, I won't throw you to the Denizens wearing nothing but rabbit ears and sparkly briefs with little fluffy tails attached.

**Dean:** Well, good.

*Lampito picks up a large bucket of melted chocolate and sloshes it generously over the Winchesters*

**Sam and Dean: **Aaaaaaargh!

**Lampito:** I'll give you a head start, if you like.

**Sam:** On what?

*Large ominous portal creaks open. A horde of Denizens pour through*

**Denizens:** Oh aren't they adorable, I wonder if those tails wiggle when they run, chocolate yum, etc.

**Sam and Dean:** AAAAAAARGH!

*They run for it. Denizens pursue. Their tails do indeed wiggle when they run.*

_fin_

**Happy Easter everybody! And remember, it is possible to eat too much chocolate.**

Reviews are the Chocolate Coated Bunny!Winchesters Bouncing Around in the Living Room Of Life!


	15. Chapter 15

Oh, it has been teh uproar here at Chez Lampito. I has teh sick - AGAIN. It are not fair, I go on leave for a week, and as soon as I finish at werk, I get a HIDEOUS cold. I blame that ghastly establishment for stressing me out until my immune system goes on strike. Curse you real life! On top of that, our greyhound has spent the last two days in the animal hospital with a mild case of rhabdomyolysis. She's home now, but being a bit clingy, and it's difficult to type teh amusings when your brain feels like it's been chugging daiquiris with Sam's, and the dog wants to sit on you and rest her head on the keyboard for a pillow.

For anybody who's having trouble imagining Dean proposing to Ruby 2.0, you can always think of her as Ruby 1.0 instead. Sam would've recognised either of them, and been equally flummoxed by version 1 or version 2. Everybody else just looks like themselves, except Veronica wears a bit of make-up and tizzies her hair a bit, Castiel doesn't wear a tie unless he's out to intimidate someone, and John shaves a lot more frequently.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen<strong>

There was a moment of stunned silence.

_Fuck it,_ said Sam's brain, _Just bring me the bottle._

Ruby dazedly opened the small box and stared at the ring inside it, a smile forming on her face. Then her expression clouded briefly, and she shot an anguished look at Sam. Dean followed the direction of her gaze, and gave him the most pleading and wistful expression he'd ever seen on his big brother's face. Sam felt his mother's stare boring into him as well. His father seemed to be holding his breath.

_Oh, come on,_ wheedled his brain, _This is a beautiful moment right here, you can't possibly rain on this parade. These two go together like peanut butter and jelly, like spaghetti and meatballs, like Bonny and Clyde, like Aliens and Predators, like Sid and Nancy, like Emperor Palpatine and Darth Vader, like Smith and Wesson, like Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, like Fred and Rosemary West..._

Sam felt every other pair of eyes in the room on him.

_The Fates decreed this,_ said his brain. _Or rather, Fate. You know that, right?_

Sam couldn't help himself; this was Dean pleading silently for his blessing. Okay, maybe not the Dean he'd grown up with, but it was still Dean, his brother, who'd bitten a demon who'd come to corrupt Sam when he was a baby, who'd dragged him back to the house when he'd cut his leg open, who'd tried desperately to save his baby brother from CPS... Before he could think any more, a great big shit-eating grin was lighting up his face.

A palpable ripple of relief ran around the room as Ruby turned back to Dean, and said "Yes." Dean slid the ring onto her finger, and pulled her into a hug.

The silence ended abruptly as the women and Crowley burst into squeals of delight, whilst the men laughed and rumbled congratulations, clapping Dean on the shoulder. There was a lot of hugging, and in the confusion, Jo took the opportunity to grab Dean's ass, to the amusement of the assemblage and the disquiet of the grabbee.

"Oh, I suppose I'll have to give you up as a lost cause, now it's official," she sighed dramatically, grinning at him cheekily.

"Maybe you could have him this Christmas, his last as a free man," suggested Ruby, "There's plenty of tinsel in the decorations box..." Dean flushed pink, and muttered mutinously.

The women and Crowley clustered around Ruby to go 'Ooooh' and 'Aaaaaaah' at the ring, admiring the setting and stone that were similar to the one Mary still wore with her wedding band.

"It's very practical," noted Veronica approvingly, "It won't catch on anything."

"Look at the etching on the band!" enthused Jo, "It's just beautiful!"

"Is that a red diamond?" asked Ellen, "Like Mary's?"

"Unless I miss my guess, it's a pink sapphire," opined Crowley, examining the stone, "With enough red colour to it to qualify as a ruby. It's magnificent, darling, just perfect. He is a clever boy."

"Don't just stand there, you honorary woman," demanded Alistair, "Go and get that bottle of something reallu special you said you had stashed!"

"I hear and obey," Crowley bowed deeply and scuttled out.

Dean pulled Sam into a tight hug, as Mary watched contentedly. "Thanks, bro," he whispered.

Ruby was right behind Dean, reaching up to hug him too. "This means so much to me Sam," she said, voice quavering, "I want us to be real family."

"Well I, er, just want you to be happy," Sam replied, "Both of you."

Dean pulled back, and wiped his eyes. "You know you gotta be my best man, right?" he said.

"What about Cas?" asked Sam. "He's your best friend, Dean, I haven't even been around for so long. I, er, don't want to offend Cas."

"I can have two best men," Dean said without hesitation.

"The arrangements for a wedding ceremony are entirely up to the bride and groom," Castiel nodded from behind them. "Considering that dogs, cats, reptiles, robots, and dead relatives have been recruited to bridal parties in recent times, two best men doesn't even count as unusual." He paused. "Although, traditionally, once the groom has chosen his attendants, his only contribution to the arrangements is to do what the bride tells him, then turn up on the day correctly dressed and with a minimum of visible body hair vandalised. Also, he should not have any unexpected body piercings or tattoos acquired within the previous forty-eight hours. Symptoms of any sexually transmitted infection will also be badly received..."

"Okay, okay, we get the message," Dean humphed, "No need to get graphic."

"As best men, of course, it is up to Sam and I to do our best the day before to shave your head, dye your eyebrows green, get you drunk then have a Prince Albert installed possibly at the same premises that tattoos that picture of Roseanne Barr on your ass..."

"I'm not taking responsibility for getting him that STI," Sam declared, as Dean grimaced in distaste.

"I am vetting both your speeches at least a week before the day," he growled at them. "In fact, I might write them for you. I will shove them out under the door of the panic room, where I intend to spend the week before the wedding..."

Crowley returned triumphant with his bottle of expensive Scotch, with which the assembled company toasted the happy couple. After that, the women retired to the living room, where they started up two laptops and nattered like a group of squirrels. Meg found them a bottle of champagne from somewhere, and they whooped and chatted, and hissed malevolently at any men who got too close. Crowley was apparently exempt from this distinction, joining them later for a glass of bubbly as he held forth on the topic of whether to veil or not. Dean, as the groom-to-be, was also allowed to approach to kiss his fiancée, and presumably to be given preliminary instructions on what was required of him.

"I mean, how much exactly is there to organise?" asked Andy in a bewildered voice, after he strayed too close and was sent on his way with a growl and a slap on the ass from his own pair-bond.

"Nothing, really," huffed Bobby in amusement, "All you actually need is the piece of paper, officiated by a registered celebrant, and two witnesses. The rest is all just window dressing. Just don't tell any of_ them_ that I said that."

"Don't fuck with The Sisterhood," nodded John. There was a general murmur of agreement.

"Still, it's about time," opined Alistair with a smile, "Those two were made for each other. 'For there is nothing nobler or more admirable than when two people who see eye to eye keep house as husband and wife, confounding their enemies and delighting their friends'. Old Homer knew his stuff. The Fates have arranged this one."

"Fate, singular," Crowley corrected him.

"Ah, the honorary Miss Crowley rejoins us," Alistair ribbed, "So, what role will you be taking on the day? Maid of honour? Flower girl? Puritannical spinster aunt who drinks too much and dances on the table, depositing her voluminous underwear in the tasteful flower arrangement? And what are you going on about?"

"Fate, singular," Crowley repeated. "If you are going to quote Homer, at least get your idiom right. Homer wrote of Fate as a singular entity, not the traditional trio of goddesses." He looked to Sam for conformation. "Isn't that right, Sam?"

"Er, yeah, it is," Sam confirmed, as Crowley pulled a smug face at Alistair. "Homer's writings, the Iliad in particular, are peculiar for referring to a single entity Fate, as opposed to the usual ancient Greeks' reference to the three Fates, the Moirai..."

_Singular form being 'Moira',_ commented his brain.

"Aha! You see?" yipped Crowley in triumph. "Only one Fate!"

"For Homer, maybe," Alistair replied, "But you'll find scholars who won't even agree that he actually existed. For everybody else, there are three Fates, for the Greeks the Moirai, for the Germanics the Norns, the Celts had the Morrigan, the Romans had the Parcae..."

"Singular form being 'Parca'," observed Sam. as a flash of understanding tore through him.

_Oh dear,_ sighed his brain, _Now that you've made the connection – Moira, Parca – I suppose you want me to come back from vacation and get back to work?_

"Exactly," nodded Alistair, "But rarely used."

"Oh, right, so, just because everybody else refers to the Fates as a triple goddess, Homer can't," sniffed Crowley. "He just has to be different. Now, Socrates, he had some interesting things to say about Fate..."

"Socrates?" spat Alistair. "Don't you dare mention that peripatetic pansy to me! I lost some of the best years of my secondary schooling reading him! The more I read, the less I wondered why they poisoned him."

"This could be a good time to escape," Dean muttered to Sam, taking his brother's elbow, "Once Alistair and Crowley are At It Again, they can go for hours."

They offered their help to Meg to clear up, which she gratefully accepted.

"I've been thinking about the Hunt I was researching," Sam mentioned as he packed a dishwasher, "The people who disappeared? I was wondering whether they were random victims, or whether there was some kind of connecting factor that they didn't know about themselves..."

"Like what?" asked Dean, scraping another plate.

"Well, like, maybe the all visited the same park, or maybe they were members of the same library," Sam went on. "Something like that. I'd like to go back and check it out."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, nobody likes to leave a Hunt unresolved," he agreed. "If Doc gives you the all clear, maybe we could take off tomorrow. It's only a few hours away from here. We can deal with it, then go home. It'll be great, Sammy, a boys only road trip!" He enthused. "We can eat pizza, and drink beer, and hustle pool, and visit the library, and watch DVDs, do the stuff that brothers are supposed to do!"

"Yeah," Sam couldn't help teasing, "Enjoy your last months as a free man."

"Don't get too cocky about that," Dean warned, "Because you know Mom is gonna be on your case after this? She'll want to see both her babies happily paired off."

"Sounds like a damned good reason to get back to studying as soon as possible," suggested Castiel, entering the kitchen with an armload of dirty crockery, "I myself went to Yale, and would be happy to introduce you to some of the Faculty. I've made deals with some of them, but I'm certain that your intellectual prowess will require no favours from anyone, and no demonic intervention to ensure success."

"Er, thanks. I think," replied Sam.

"At least stay around until the Fall term starts," pleaded Dean, "Get to know your family again. Bobby will have a job for you, with the artefacts, and Ruby and I will set a date that fits around school."

Meg suddenly paused, and sniffed. "Can I... can anybody else smell smoke?" she asked anxiously.

The men in the kitchen paused and sniffed. "Yeah," agreed Dean, looking around, "I can, is it something in here?" He began to examine the oven, as Castiel looked out the window.

"The source of the smoke is outside, and does not represent any danger to us," he intoned seriously.

The others joined him at the window. Outside, at the bottom of the steps, on the clear ground where Family Fight Club had played out, a cheerful fire crackled on the ground. John stood warming his hands, smiling, while Andy, in wolf form, sat panting happily.

With a war cry like an avenging hippopotamus, Bobby thundered down the hall and burst out of the house, brandishing a shotgun.

"However, I cannot say the same for your father and Andy right now," added Castiel, as Bobby took in the scene, and hefted the gun.

There was a loud 'bang', followed by a human yelp, a lupine yelp, and the sound of running feet being pursued by a rampaging hippopotamus. More bangs and more yelps followed, as members of the tribe drifted out onto the porch to watch and laugh.

"Looks like Dad and Andy finally had enough of that table extension," grinned Dean.

"Do not be overly concerned," reassured Castiel, taking in Sam's horrified expression, "We can be almost certain that Bobby is only loaded with rock salt."

"Almost certain?" repeated Sam doubtfully, as a particularly high pitched yelp wafted in.

"Perhaps with a little bit of silver nitrate added," Castiel conceded. "Just to make his point."

**********...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **********

The next morning, his family let Sam sleep late again. When he woke, he made his way downstairs to find the ladies sitting clustered in the living room, chattering and laughing again. Some of them were knitting. Not wanting to fuck with The Sisterhood, he continued to the kitchen, in search of breakfast.

In the kitchen, he found the menfolk clustered in concern around Andy, who sat at the table, staring into space.

"He's in shock," declared Bobby, any lingering resentment about premature incineration forgotten.

"He's just overwhelmed by the profoundly joyous nature of the occasion," Crowley said.

"Yeah, he's so joyous, he's gone into shock," opined Castiel, waving a hand in front of Andy's unresponsive face.

"Meeeeep," went Andy.

"Here we go," Dean bustled across the kitchen with a mug, "Hot tea, with plenty of sugar. You drink that Andy, and everything will seem less... uh, profoundly joyous..."

"I think he might need something a bit stronger than tea," suggested Alistair, pulling a small flask from a pocket, "A nip of this is what you need, lad..."

"It's a bit early in the day for hard liquor," frowned Bobby.

"Nonsense," replied Alistair, tipping a tot of whisky into the mug, "It's perfectly all right if it's for therapeutic purposes. That's not drinking, that's medicine."

John poked experimentally at Andy, who remained unresponsive. "Well, it is quite a bit to deal with," he said.

"Er, is something the matter with Andy?" asked Sam.

"Meeeeep," went Andy.

"Not at all," Doc Crowley reassured him, "He's just received some wonderful news!"

"Paralysingly wonderful," confirmed John, poking Andy's shoulder again.

"Veronica's in whelp," Dean told Sam.

"Meeeeep," went Andy.

"She asked me to confirm it last night," Doc Crowley nodded. "She didn't want to steal Dean and Ruby's thunder, so she told Andy this morning..."

"Meeeeep," went Andy.

"...And everybody else after that," finished Castiel.

"Er, wow, that's... fantastic," stuttered Sam, 'Er, congratulations, Andy, you're gonna have a... pup?"

"Meeeeep," went Andy.

"Pups, plural," corrected Doc, "Old North werewolves rarely breed anymore, there are so few of them, but when they do, they usually have multiple pregnancies. In this case, I suspect triplets..."

"Meeeeep," went Andy.

"Wow," breathed Sam, "That's going to be a lot of diapers."

"Or a lot of litter trays," added Alistair.

"Ah, it'll change your life," John gestured expansively, "I'll never forget the mixture of pride, sheer terror and a desire to throw up that I experienced when I held each newborn child... the wonder of a new life, the amazing perfection of such a tiny, helpless little thing, the unbelievable ability of one small baby to enfecalate an entire room, the forfeiting of a decent night's sleep for the following several months, if not years..."

"I'm really going to enjoy having kidlets around here again," grinned Bobby. "I can let you use a pen in the kennel, if they get too boisterous."

Meg made Sam breakfast, whilst the others continued to try to coax Andy out of his paternal paralysis. A quick consultation with Doc satisfied Dean that Sam was fit to travel, and at least do more research to find out what the Hunt he'd been on was dealing with, then with John's reluctant blessing, they prepared to leave.

Mary paused in her knitting – Sam saw that it was a small four-legged set of footy pyjamas – and hugged both her boys. "You be careful," she instructed, "If you need more firepower, call us, and we'll send backup."

"John and I will come to your assistance if necessary," Castiel added. "We will bring Andy with us, should the case be one that requires the deployment of a battering ram, perhaps."

"Dean, you look after your brother," John told his eldest seriously, "We don't want to lose him again."

"Yes, sir," answered Dean, grinning at Sam. "I'll have him complaining about me being an over-protective big brother before you know it!"

"That's what I want to hear," nodded John.

"You be careful, sweetie," Mary hugged Sam, "You're still recovering. Don't take any chances. After all, after the wedding, the horde or adorable grandchildren that Dean and Ruby are going to give me will need their Uncle Sammy to help raise them!"

"Meeeeep," went Dean.

* * *

><p><strong>Crowley:<strong> I must protest at this unseemly display of... me!

**Castiel:** My vessel is experiencing a certain amount of... draftiness.

**Crowley:** Who do I look like, Borat? Cher? Milla Jovovich?

**Castiel:** I don't understand that reference.

**Crowley:** At least Cher got actual gaffer tape!

*A door opens. Winchesters race through, panting, chests heaving and abs rippling. They slam the door behind them, and wedge a chair under the handle.*

**Dean:** Crap, they are relentless... That won't hold them for HOLY SHIT!

**Sam (eyes bugging):** What the hell happened to you two?

**Crowley:** I don't know! One minute I was signing the certificate for Most Souls Corrupted For The Month, and the next, I'm here, wearing nothing but half a gallon of body paint!

**Castiel:** I believe we are meant to be costumed as the traditional Easter fare referred to as hot cross buns. *cocks head in manner indicating that he is confused about something* Dean, why are you and your brother wearing sequinned underwear and headbands with fabric rabbit ears attached to them?

**Crowley:** And have you been rolling in the fondue again? Naughty naughty... are those tongue marks I see, Dean?

**Dean (prodding gingerly at the vertical stripe running up the centre of Castiel):** Oh no, this isn't just body paint, this is... chocolate body paint...

*Behind them, the door shudders under a heavy impact*

**Crowley:** What the hell is that?

**Sam (bottom lip trembling):** It's fangirls!

**Crowley:** And you've led them straight to us? You idiots!

*the door splinters. Denizens surge through*

**Denizens:** There they are, OMG WTF, Is that milk or dark do you think, Does anybody know the first aid for a sprained tongue, etc.

**Sam, Dean, Crowley and Castiel:** AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

*They run for it. Denizens pursue. Out of sight, strange giggling, slurping and shrieking noises are heard*

_fin_

Reviews are the Toasted Hot Cross Bun And Hot Lemon Drink When You Are Languishing On The Sofa Of Life!


	16. Chapter 16

Sanitise your keyboards after you've read this, I've been breathing all over this document as I type and I'd hate for anybody to catch teh sick from me...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Sixteen<strong>

The entire company clustered at the base of the porch steps to wish them a safe trip and wave them off. Andy even emerged from his pending parenthood paralysis to join them, waving goodbye whilst wearing an expression that was a combination of happiness, bewilderment and panic. Jimi settled himself in the back seat with a happy woof and a contented sigh, and went to sleep.

"Well don't just sit there," instructed Dean, handing Sam two large travel mugs, "See what we got!" He indicated the basket of provisions that Meg had provided for them.

"Oh, er, right," Sam dug around in the basket as the Impala pulled out of the yard. "It appears to be a selection of turkey sandwiches, lobster wraps, chunks of pumpkin pie, there's some apples here, and I think that's a bottle of cider..." he grinned at his brother's obvious impatience. "And I believe that there's also a box of cupcakes."

"Yahtzee!" cried Dean, "Well, don't just sit there, get me one!"

"Dean, you only had breakfast an hour ago!" Sam laughed.

"Any time is cupcake time," Dean asserted. "I love me some cupcakes! And Jimi just loves to lick out the patty cases, don't you, Mister J?" Hearing his name, the monster in the back seat whuffed and wagged his tail. "Are there any more of the little turkey ones?"

"Right here, bro," Sam fished a cupcake out and held it out to Dean.

Dean stared at the cupcake and then gave Sam a look.

"What?" asked Sam.

"Sam," Dean chided, "How can I eat that without a napkin? I'll get it all over myself!"

"Oh, er, sorry," Sam stuttered, fishing in the basket for a napkin.

"Mmmmm, that woman has a real talent," Dean sighed happily around a mouthful of cake. "Hey, you wanna get some music happening?" He nodded at the iPod dock. "I downloaded some of your stuff onto it, I didn't think you'd mind. Pick something good."

Sam stared at him. "You want me to pick the music?" he gaped.

"My car, my rules," Dean stated. "Shotgun sorts the music out, so the driver keeps his eyes on the damned road." He passed the cupcake case over to Jimi in the back seat, who began to snuffle at it. "While you're at it, get one of his biscuits, will you?"

"Biscuits?" echoed Sam.

"Yeah, charcoal and chlorophyll biscuits," Dean elaborated, "That packet down there. I usually give him one every couple of hours when we're driving, otherwise we're liable to suffocate in here. Get me a wet wipe too, will you?" he added, examining his icing-sticky fingers, "They're in the glove box. With the sanitiser, and the sunscreen."

The glove box of the Impala was unnaturally tidy and organised, Sam noted, as he obliged. Jimi took his anti-flatulence biscuit with surprising delicacy for such a monstrous creature.

"This is great," Dean beamed, "We can stop for a picnic lunch somewhere in a few hours. Hey, you wanna visit the Badlands National Park on the way back? We can go fossil hunting!"

"Let's just... see what the weather is like," suggested Sam. "So, you're going to be a married man?"

"Yeah," Dean's smile toned down a bit. "And now it's like, it's real, I've asked, and it's going to happen, I'm starting to feel a bit like Andy. You know, don't mind me if I go 'meeeeeep'."

"Just don't set any furniture on fire," joked Sam. "Sounds like Mom is keen for you two to start presenting her with grandkids."

"She's been hinting for years," grinned Dean, "Getting less subtle as time goes by. I guess I'm looking forward to that, too – Ruby's asked Doc, and it's possible for us – but it's kinda scary at the same time. I want a little Sam or Samantha that I can teach to walk, throw a ball, ride a bicycle, swim, go fishing, tie a noose, shoot straight, break limbs, all those things that Dad taught me."

"Er, Sam or Samantha?" Sam repeated.

"Of course!" Dean told him, "Ruby and I have talked about it before. We were always going to name our firstborn for you – Samuel John, or Samantha Mary – but now that you're back, that's even better! You can teach him or her Latin, and how to put a good edge on a blade, and how to set a fire, and how to cover your tracks, oh, we'll get him or her their own teddy bear, and Junior Winchester will just get a huge laugh out of playing Interrogation with Uncle Sammy and teddy! Still, it's kinda scary too, the idea of a whole new little person to look after and raise..."

_He'll be fine_, Sam's brain said nonchalantly, _He did a pretty good job with you, if anyone can raise half-vampire rugrats to be happy, well-adjusted, loving and emotionally literate adorable little killing machines, it's this Dean. I'm in Duty Free, do you want booze? New camera? Straightening iron? How about some kiddy software, you know, BabyManson, My First Sniper Rifle for Wii, perhaps, Let's Kill Elmo, something like that..._

"...Until you're ready to start your own family," Dean's grin was huge.

Sam nearly snorted latte out his nose.

"I'm warning you, bro," Dean went on relentlessly, "She won't rest until she sees both her baby boys happily paired off and breeding." He looked thoughtful. "Unless you meet a guy you like," he added in an offhand way, "We'd all be cool with that, although if he does anything to hurt you I'll cut his dick off..."

"What?" Sam spluttered. "No! I mean, women! I mean, I told you about Jess. I tried... normal. It... didn't work for me."

"That was before, Sammy," Dean reached out to pat Sam reassuringly on the shoulder, "You were taken away from your family, then attacked by a demon – of course you couldn't do 'normal'! But that's all behind you now. You've got us!"

_That's reassuring, _shrugged Sam's brain,_ Tribe Normal. The Normal Family. More loving and supportive than the Waltons. I wonder if they serve daiquiris on this flight..._

"Yeah, that's... reassuring," managed Sam.

The drive back to Montana took until after dark. Dean took them to a very good steak house for dinner before pulling into a motel that was decidedly more upmarked than the ones Sam was accustomed to.

"Hey, we got a spa bath!" "I'll toss you for first turn in the spa bath tonight!"

"No, that's okay, bro, you can go first," Sam couldn't help smiling.

"I saw a bakery advertising its cupcakes bakery on the way in – you like red velvet? Nobody does 'em as good as Mom. How about we get breakfast there tomorrow, and I'll get some and we can see how inferior they are!"

"Sounds good," Sam agreed. Dean's cheerfulness was irresistible.

"Oh, I nearly forgot, Dad said to give you this," Dean grinned and handed over an envelope. Sam opened it, and gawped.

"What the... a Platinum AmEx?"

""Well, duh!" Dean ruffled his hair. "I mean, the whole pool hustling and poker thing, it's fun, but it's damned difficult to make enough to live on. If you wanna go out tonight, you can christen it."

"Oh, okay, you, er wanna find a bar?" asked Sam, turning the card over.

"Nuh-uh, after a drive like that, I wanna have a bath, and turn in with a good book," Dean yawned. "You go if you want. You can take the car. But..." his face became shuttered.

"But?" Sam pressed.

Dean's lips drew into a thin line. "Look, Sam, you're a big boy, and you can make your own decisions," he said evenly, "So if you wanna go out, that's up to you, but if you meet someone, and you want to, you know, so long as you're both sober and consenting, but not in my car, you hear me? Don't you dare do anything lewd in my car! You find somewhere decent and private with a proper bed, at her place, or you get another room..."

"What? No!" yelped Sam. "Dean, I don't... um, I generally don't, you know, casual hook-ups, they just don't do it for me. I have no intention of, er, defiling your car. Bed and book sounds good."

"I knew it!" Dean beamed at him again. "I knew my brother wouldn't be some sort of man-slut! We gotta get you a car of your own, though."

"We do?" Apparently, another universal constant was the capacity of a Dean Winchester in any reality to change topic and relevance of conversation with dizzying speed.

"We totally do!" Dean declared. He deflated a little. "You'll need wheels, because I know you'll want to go back to school, Sam," he sighed ruefully, "I'll miss you, but I get it. You're a grown-up now, and you gotta have your own life, right? Decide what you wanna do?"

"Well, yeah, I guess," conceded Sam.

"And it won't be forever!" Dean's cheerful demeanour reasserted itself "And I'll come visit you, wherever you are, and spy on you, because Mom will want intel on who you're dating, and whether you're eating enough, and if you don't give me juicy info to relay I'll have to make stuff up or she'll withhold cupcakes, just warning you, dude, and you'll be able to come home for term breaks, unless," his voice turned sly and he waggled his eyebrows in a terribly Deanesque fashion, "You find that special somebody you'd like to spend some quality time with during vacation..."

"Well, let's just... worry about that when it happens," Sam stuttered.

While Dean splashed happily in the bathroom, occasionally giving in to outbursts of song – "The acoustics in here are awesome, Sam!" - Sam started his laptop and found his way to the library database, where he was able to establish that all the disappeared people were members of the library where he'd encountered Moira Parker. He knocked on the bathroom door, and ducked his head inside to tell Dean what he'd found, making up something about them using a DVD rental place as well.

"We can check it out first thing tomorrow," Dean nodded, from where he bobbed gently in a mound of bubbles, carefully holding his book above the foam. "Hey, what time is it? Attenborough's 'The Private Life Of Plants' is on cable, and I don't want to miss an episode. It's carnivorous plants tonight! Do you remember your Venus Fly Trap you had as a 'pet' when you were five? I won it for you at a shooting gallery at a fair. You named it Rufus. You and Bobby used to spend hours catching flies to feed to Rufus, and Dad would sit with you, and make up things for the flies to say – 'No, no, not me, have mercy, I have a wife and ten maggots, and three of them need braces, not meeeeee!', and you giggled so much, and Mom and I would be in stitches..."

They sat and watched the program over hot chocolate and Meg's cupcakes, giving Jimi the patty cases, before retiring to bed.

"Here ya go," Dean threw something small to Sam, who caught it. It was a chocolate mint. "You can have mine, I've just brushed my teeth."

"Oh, er, thanks, bro," Sam smiled. Dean waited for him to get into bed, and turned the lamp off.

"G'night Sam."

"G'night, Dean."

"Rowf!" went Jimi.

_G'night Dean-boy, _trilled Sam's brain,_ G'night Unca Bobby. G'night Castiel-demon. G'night Jo Beth. G'night Papa John. G'night Mama Mary. G'night Mizz Ellen. G'night Andy-pup. G'night Mammy Veronica. G'night Doc. G'night Mr Alistair. G'night Miss Meg. They are all in separate beds, right?_

So good of you to join me again, muttered Sam.

************...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ************

After breakfast the next day headed for the library. Dean parked not far from it, and said he'd walk to the DVD rental place. "Because I'm not the one who's been concussed, okay?" he reasoned. "Don't argue with me, Sam. Big brother's prerogative."

"Okay." Sam clutched his laptop and felt indecisive. He was anxious to get back to his Dean, but... he put the laptop down on the roof of the car, and grabbed Dean in a hug.

"Thanks, Dean," he said thickly, "Thanks for... for being such an awesome big brother."

"Hey, that's okay, bro," Dean hugged him back, "Thanks for being such an awesome baby brother." He pulled back, and looked at Sam. "Are you okay?" he asked, the merest hint of worry in his voice.

"Yeah," Sam picked up his laptop, and forced himself to smile. Dean gave him a clap on the shoulder, smiled, and turned to head off across the park.

The library was quiet. Moira was behind the desk, and she smiled at Sam as he walked straight to her.

"Hello again, Sam," she smiled over her glasses, "How are you getting on?"

"Which one are you?" he asked without preamble.

"Oh, I have many names, dear," she smiled gently, "Lachesis, Decima, Aisa, Urde, but I like Moira. You found your way to your family." It was a statement, not a question.

"What the hell did you do?" he demanded. "I walked out of here to look for my brother, and got whacked in the head by..."

"Your brother," she finished for him, "Your loving, devoted brother, who took you to the rest of your family." She looked concerned. "It is what you wanted, isn't it?"

"What I... what I wanted?" his voice rose in disbelief.

She looked confused. "You wondered what your life would have been like if your family had stayed together," she reminded him. "You saw the family in the park, and you yearned for it so much..."

"Okay," Sam agreed, "But exactly how did you arrive at the conclusion that I wanted to walk out into some whacko alternative reality, where my family is a bunch of homicidal maniacs who get together on important days to beat the crap out of each other? Where my brother is a professional hit man, who's now engaged to a vampire?"

"I can only work with what is possible, Sam," she told him regretfully. "I can only work with what is, or was potential, what might have been, but wasn't. In order to find you a happier fate with your whole family, I had to look for one that could have existed. Oh, I can twist strands together a little, splice them to a certain extent, but... I am the Allotter, not the Spinner of the strands of Fate. You wanted it so badly," she sounded sad. "And this thread had everything that you wanted. Your parents, your brother, a family, a life..."

"Is this what happened to the other people who've disappeared here?" he asked.

"All of them ached for something different," Moira told him, "All of them. Patrick Greoghan, he's been missing his wife desperately since she was killed by a drunk driver; I found him an alternative strand where she was injured, but she survived, and so did their unborn first child. Penny Greenhill was positively suicidal after the deaths of her two children; leukaemia. She blamed herself, poor thing. I found her a strand where neither of them carried the defective genes. Jed Harrington poured his life into the family farm, and he was desolate when he lost it, but I managed to find a strand where it turned a modest profit – he loved the land so. Rosie Madden nursed her beloved grandfather, the man who raised her, as he died slowly of lung disease – I sent her to a strand where he never set foot in a coal mine, and he'll live to play with his great-grandchildren..."

"But... why?" Sam had to ask. "Why would you do this?"

Moira gave him an indulgent smile. "Because I could, and it made them happy," she told him, a twinkle in her eye, "What's the point of absolute power if you don't abuse it from time to time?"

"Well, you gotta send me back to my reality," Sam insisted. "My brother, the one I grew up with, will be going nuts looking for me!"

"Your brother is currently asking subtle questions of the bored teenager behind the counter at the DVD rental," Moira replied. "He _is_ your brother, Sam, he is 'your' Dean. There is no 'other' Dean. And he is so happy to have you back again. They all are."

"But... what about the Sam Winchester who was taken away by CPS?" he wanted to know. "He's out there somewhere..."

"You _are_ him," she broke in. "Oh, it's so difficult to explain, humans are such linear creatures, of only four dimensions. But he is the 'real' Dean, Sam, they are your real family. If just a couple of things had been different, this is how you would have grown up."

"You have to send me back," he repeated.

"Is this so bad?" she asked him sympathetically. "You have your family, loving and happy. You have a home, a place to call yours. Your brother will marry, and your nephews will adore you. You'll marry too, you know. You'll meet her while you're studying. She'll fit right in. Oh, I'm not saying it will be a life without pain, your brother will pre-decease you, as will one of your grandchildren – she'll decide she wants to be a Hunter, but she'll make you proud – but you'll survive, Sam, you'll survive and you'll thrive, because you'll have your family..."

"No." Sam paused, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. I don't belong here. This isn't... I want my Dean."

"The one who plagues you with tales of his sexual conquests?" she looked doubtful. "The one who chews with his mouth open, drinks too much, fornicates too much, eats like a sewer rat, listens to music you can't stand, is emotionally illiterate, takes a perverse delight in trying to make you uncomfortable, vandalises your belongings and your person, insists on treating you like a child while worrying you to death with lack of regard for his own wellbeing, where you live a hand-to-mouth existence between Hunts..."

"The one who raised me, and looks out for me, and patches me up, yeah, that one," he confirmed. "I gotta go back. Please. I don't want to hurt the Winchesters here," he told her hurriedly, "But... they all have each other. Where I come from, Dean... we're all the blood we have left. Wherever he is, that's my home, and that's my family."

Moira sighed. "Well, it's most unusual," she said, "But if you're sure..."

"I'm sure," Sam told her firmly.

"Very well," she agreed. "I will send you back to the splice, where I twisted the strands together." She nodded to the door. "Your brother will be looking for you."

"Thank you." He turned for the door, but paused. "What... what about Dean in this reality?" he asked reluctantly.

She smiled sadly. "He is haunted by the loss of his baby brother, and will never stop missing him," she told him gently, "But he has his family. He intends to propose to his girlfriend at Thanksgiving, which will bring joy to them all."

"That's... good," replied Sam. "He's... a good guy. I mean, he's a professional killer, but... he cares about his family more than anything. He deserves some happiness."

"Goodbye, dear," she said, smiling at him, "And may my sisters smile on you."

Sam hurried out of the library, noting that the sun had moved across the sky; it was early evening. His breath caught when he noticed the Impala parked where Dean had first left it when they arrived before Thanksgiving.

Hardly daring to breathe, he ran to the car. His brother wasn't there...

But Jimi was.

The half-Hellhound Rottweiler whuffed happily and wagged his tail to see his Second.

Sam felt himself almost wilting with relief, so much so that he almost didn't register that someone was approaching him from behind.

A hand on his shoulder suddenly spun him around roughly, and he was staring into worried green eyes.

"Sam! Where the fuck have you been? You weren't in the library, your phone didn't pick up, I've been looking for you for an hour, you were supposed to AWP!"

Dean's eyes bugged as Sam grinned hugely and gathered him into a bear hug. Ordinarily he would have complained loudly and obscenely about the totally gay invasion of his personal space by Francis the Emo from Planet Giant Fucking Girl, but given the sense of relief washing over him, he decided to let Gigantor get away with it, just this once.

And he totally was NOT getting the slightest bit of comfort by hugging his baby bro. Nuh-uh.

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Hugging Winchester of Your Choice at the Impala Of Life!<p> 


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

"You're making this up," declared Dean, as Sam explained his encounter with his alternative family. "You're totally making this up. Me and Ruby? Ruby the vampire? Mom the killer chick from Hell? Crowley was a doctor? Castiel was a demon lawyer? Jo grabbing my ass? No sex in the car? You are making all this up! I don't know where you've been all day – I'd ask if you were getting down and dirty somewhere with a girl, but that would be too much to ask – but you were doing something that you don't want me to find out about, and now you're making this up!"

Sam just grinned. He recognised post-Sam-loss-panic-and-Sam-retrieval-bluster-of-relief when he saw it. . Dean had taken one look at the lingering lump on the side of his head, and declared that they were heading to Bobby's for a week until he was satisfied that his baby bro was fully recovered.

"If I ever meet myself, I'm going to knock me on my ass for that," Dean growled. "Or, you fell over your own gigantic feet, and you've been out cold in an alley for most of the day, hallucinating."

"No, I'm not," grinned Sam. "Look at this."

Dean's eyes bugged as he took in the Platinum AmEx card. "Where the fuck did you get this?" he demanded.

"Dean gave it to me. Well, Dad gave it to Dean, to pass on to me," Sam explained.

"Well, that means that you can buy me dinner," Dean decided. "So, what do we do about this Moira chick? Do we gank her?"

"I don't think we can," Sam told him, "I don't think it's possible to gank Fate. It would be like trying to gank gravity. 'She' isn't a person as such, 'she' just... is. A property of the fabric of the universe. Besides, she isn't doing anything... malevolent. She says she's using her authority to make people happy. And she is."

Dean looked at Sam. "But not you," he said slowly.

"No, not me," Sam agreed.

There was a moment of silence in which Sam could practically hear the gears whirr in Dean's head. This Dean, _his_ Dean, would never say out loud anything as chick-flick as 'Sam, I'm relieved beyond description that you threw away what could've been the closest shot you had at a normal, perfect life and came back to me – I love you too, bro,' but in this reality, in his life, the thoughtful silence from _his_ Dean was enough.

"So, what was he like?"

"Who?" asked Sam innocently.

"Me!" said Dean. "Alternative me! What was he like?"

"Well, he was... alternative you," Sam replied. "He was smart, he was considerate, he had manners, he liked to read, he was devoted to his fiancée, he never had sex in his car, in fact, I don't think he ever had sex with anyone except Ruby, he certainly didn't like to talk about it, he avoided hard liquor, he hated porn, he was the most emotionally healthy person I think I've ever met, he liked a good hug, he had pretty good taste in music, he had a great voice – big fan of opera..."

"Opera?" Dean yelped. "He sounds like a total dick! He was the complete opposite of me! He was anti-awesome. No wonder you came back."

"Yeah," grinned Sam, "How could I not?"

"So, holder of Daddy's charge card, let's go buy pizza. And beer. And hard liquor."

After they'd eaten, Sam headed for the shower. When he came out, Dean was sitting at his laptop, frowning at the screen.

"There's something wrong with this thing," Dean grumbled, slapping the screen.

"It was working just fine this morning," Sam countered.

"Well it's not working now!" Dean snapped. "There's something wrong with the internet!"

"Maybe the wifi's not so good here," Sam suggested, "Let me see..." he tapped briefly at the keyboard. "Nope, we got at least three unsecured routers, with four or five bars. You're good to go, bro."

"No, Sam, I am NOT good to go!" Dean barked irritably. "Look! All my favourites are gone – again – and the search thing is completely broken!"

"Huh?" Sam tried two search engines; all seemed to be in order. "It's working fine. What's wrong, exactly?"

"I'm not getting any results that I want!" Dean spluttered. "Look, all I got back is these stupid pictures of cats with captions!"

Sam's mouth opened and shut silently. Then he grinned, and started to laugh.

"This isn't funny!" insisted Dean. "Cats! I don't want pictures of cats, I was looking for... and this! Bird-watching! I did _not_ type in bird-watching! What the hell is this? 'How to get rid of corns, calluses and plantar warts'? And this: 'Emancipation – a collection of essays from the Civil War'! That is _not_ what I meant, Sam! This computer is being a total asshole! It's being a buzzkill! It's being a little bitch! It's... being like you, Sam! Sam? Sam! Sam, you stop laughing right now!"

************...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ************

They were on the road the next morning, headed east, with Led Zeppelin blasting from the speakers, Dean stuffing his face with Doritos and slurping a coffee and drumming on the steering wheel and singing along, and Jimi snoring in the back seat.

"What are you grinning at, Sam?" Dean paused to ask suspiciously.

"Nothing," Sam kept grinning, "Just enjoying the ambiance."

"I was thinking," Dean went on, "Since we got some downtime, and we're headed for Bobby's, and you got the charge card, and it's Thanksgiving and all, maybe we could, you know," he waved a hand vaguely, "Cook a turkey, and mash some potatoes, and get a pumpkin pie, and have a sit-down meal, and, and... stuff..."

"Yeah," Sam smiled, "That'd be great. I'll be Bobby would enjoy it, too."

"Awesome!" Dean grinned. "I love me some pie! We could send up a p-mail, invite Cas, see if he has time to drop in."

"Sure," agreed Sam.

"I don't want to invite Ronnie and Andrew, though," Dean humphed, "She's a bitch."

"She is indeed," nodded Sam.

"And I do NOT want to invite Crowley," Dean muttered.

"Amen to that," added Sam quickly.

"Just us. Just family. A family Thanksgiving," Dean mused. "Oh, and you are totally going to help me with the washing up."

"Yes, Dean."

"And I absolutely forbid you to buy one of those tofurkey abominations. You will eat proper dead bird flesh on the day, like normal people."

"Yes, Dean."

"And there will be butter and cream in the mashed potatoes, and you will eat it and like it."

"Yes, Dean."

"And we're not going to be beating the crap out of each other before lunch, either."

"Yes, Dean."

"Because that's just stupid."

"Yes, Dean."

"I don't have anything to prove – I know that I can whup your fluffy butt anytime."

"Yes, Dean."

"Sam?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"Stop staying 'Yes, Dean,' like that. It's creepy, and weird, and totally Stepford."

"Yes, Dean."

"Saaaaam!"

"Yes, Dean?"

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

They drove on, Dean munching and drumming and singing, until a thought suddenly occurred to him.

"Hey, I just thought of something! I never finished telling you about that chick!"

"Which chick?" asked Sam, realising his mistake too late.

"The one I was telling you about before," Dean smiled happily, "The one with the thing about Liam Neeson? The kilt? The Loch Ness Monster? You know, the sex toy that time forgot?"

"Oh," sighed Sam. He consulted his watch. It was at least another six hours to Bobby's place. And that was without a stop for lunch. Six hours, trapped in the presence of the Living Sex God in full discourse mode.

_Althernative Dean would've been easily squicked out by his baby brother,_ noted his brain_. I wonder if this one is even squickable?_ _Have you ever even tried? I mean, you know he gets a buzz out of watching you turn red and squirm, right?... _

Dean grinned hugely at his baby brother, who looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, "No, you didn't finish that story."

"Well, we got plenty of time," Dean waggled his eyebrows, "So I can..."

"You never really got around to telling me about this Loch Ness Monster thing," Sam said, "You said that it was battery powered, but you didn't really describe it. So, what did it look like?"

"Well, she... what?" Dean shook his head, sure that he'd misheard.

"The sex toy," Sam repeated, almost... impatiently?... "You didn't tell me what it looked like."

"Er, well," Dean regrouped, "It was kind of, you know, long, and a bit curved..."

"How long?" Sam asked. "Look, I'm just trying to establish what exactly it was," he clarified, "What are we talking here? Vibrator? Butt plug? Prostate massager? If you tell me how long it was, I might be able to work out what it was." He looked thoughtful. "Was it ribbed, or ridged?"

Dean's mouth hung open for a moment. "Well," he finally said, "It was kind of, about, er, maybe seven inches long..."

"Okay, so probably too long for a plug then," mused Sam, "Now we're getting somewhere. It kind of squirmed, you said? For internal or external use?"

"Well, er, she, er..." Dean said uncertainly.

"You know, inside or out?" Sam explained, almost rolling his eyes. "So, did she use it on herself, or did she use it on you?"

"Sam..." Dean winced.

"I'm told the sensations can be quite intense," Sam went on matter-of-factly, "It's pretty common for couples to use toys..."

"Sam!" Dean winced harder.

"...And perfectly normal for a male to enjoy some sort of anal penetration..."

"Sam!" Dean yelped. "Who the hell are you and what have you done with my brother? !"

"Dean, it's not at all weird," his baby brother assured him with an understanding smile. "Whatever floats your boat dude..."

"You're alternative Sam!" shrieked Dean, "That's what this is! You're alternative Sam! You're some kind of creepy pervert from an alternative reality where Sam was the brother who got all the Winchester sexytime genes!"

"Come on, Dean," Sam smiled indulgently at him, "You're the one who likes to talk about this stuff. Did she tie you to the bed for this?"

"Saaaam!" squeaked Dean, eyes bugging in horror.

"Do you like to be gagged, too?"

"_Saaaaaam!" _Dean's eyes darted around the car. It was at least another six hours to Bobby's. He was trapped...

"Yeah, it's the tough guys who like that sort of thing. It's a form of giving up control, I guess. It's totally cool, bro, informed consenting adults. You like having your nipples pinched?

"_SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!"_

************...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ************

Moira had watched out the window as Sam made his way outside, and ran to the car. His brother was right behind him, and clearly glad to find him – the waves of anger/relief rolling off the older man were almost visible.

She smiled sadly to herself; she'd seen their strands, the potential ones and this one. It was a hard life, but they had each other. And they were... content with that.

She went back to her desk, and murmured words in an ancient dialect.

It would be wrong to suggest that actual threads appeared under her hands. It was more a suggestion of threads, or threads as a suggestion of something else, woven together in a way that suggested both pattern and chaos at once. She considered the loose fabric before her, then picked two fine strands from the weft, examining them, measuring them, and finally twisting them together...

_He looked up from his laptop; he'd been in the library for longer than he'd hoped, but hadn't found much information on the disappearances. The only thing they seemed to have in common was the fact that they'd disappeared..._

_It was only a few days until Thanksgiving. In the park across the street, a family had apparently decided to make an early start on seasonal festivities, despite the November chill. Two men, possibly brothers from the resemblance, kicked a soccer ball. A child toddled into the game, grabbing the ball and making a spirited escape attempt, until being swept up by a laughing... Father? Uncle? An older man (grandfather?) who was talking to a woman (mother? Grandmother? It was impossible to tell at the distance) laughed and shook his head. Some brotherly push-and-shove ensued; he could almost hear the laughing exchange that followed._

_No fair, your sprog stole the ball!_

_Only because you kick like a girl._

_You had an extra man on the field. Penalty, bro._

_All's fair in love and war and soccer, dude._

_What would it have been like? _

_If he was with his family, together..._

_He shook his head; he'd long since squelched that treacherous little voice. His life was as it was, and there was nothing to be gained by torturing himself with wishful thinking. But at this time of the year, it could be... hard._

_He left the library, still wondering about the case, so lost in his thoughts that he almost didn't see it._

_The car. THE car._

_His breath caught in his throat. He'd never forget that car... He ran a hand over the rear quarter panel. It couldn't be, it couldn't be..._

_A huge dog sat in the back seat, a gigantic canine monstrosity, grinning at him. He gasped. He'd seen dogs like that before. He'd known dogs like that... when he was a kid, before..._

_He was so engrossed in grasping at tenuous memories of his childhood that he almost didn't register the presence of someone stealing up behind him silently. They were good; but he was a lone Hunter, and a damned fine one, used to watching his own back, so he turned at the last minute, and intercepted the hand that was about to crack him a good one across the head with the butt of a pistol..._

_Hazel eyes stared into green, and he felt as if his heart had stopped. He stuttered one word._

"_D... Dean?"_

Moira returned to the window, and watched the two men stare at other, gaze at each other in disbelief and then joy, and tearfully hug each other, not caring who saw them embrace like the long-lost brothers they were. Then she smiled, and went to make herself a cup of hot chocolate.

She took it to the very centre of the reading area to drinking it, with a cookie. Because she could.

After all, what's the point of absolute power if you can't abuse it from time to time?

_**THE END**_

* * *

><p>Aaaaaaaaand another bunny stomped. *squelch*. Miserable rodents. They make my life hellish, I tell you! Wretched things... look, there's another one already, I think it might even be Bunny #1 from TJNTPB, but I can't be sure because it refuses to co-operate, it just whispers incoherently of little scenelets, but won't tell me how to string them together yet, never mind an actual plot. Never mind, I shall try being nice to it, and if it produces anything useful, I shall try writing something down. Any helpful vibes you have to send to the bunny might help. NOTE: that does NOT mean I want more plot bunnies, you reprobates. Apropos of that, I am terribly sorry, but I cannot for the life of me think of a scenario in which it would be necessary for Dean and Sam to hop on a plane and head Down Under – there are Hunters Down Here, I'm sure, plus we have gdaicha men and clever women who were probably taking care of That Sort Of Thing long before the whitefellas arrived.<p>

Anyway, that's one more fanfic trope given the Lampito twist. Two actually, I guess, evil!Winchesters and AU!Winchesters. I REFUSE to do slash, I'm afraid, I'm just not that way inclined. I had to type the last part of the conversation in the car with my eyes closed... Yay P.R.E.W.D.!

Meanwhile, Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Being As Suggestive Or Gentlemanly As You Like in the Impala Of Life! (Chocolate sauce optional; try not to get it on the upholstery.)


	18. SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE

I know what my audience wants. The Denizens: they're depraved, but they get shit done. Le sigh.

And so, I give you...

**_SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE:_ DELETED SCENE FROM END OF CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

* * *

><p>*Sam peeks carefully at house around tree. White van with <strong>'Denizens' Dean Destressing &amp; Sam Soothing Services'<strong> discreetly stencilled on the side is parked out front. Group of Denizens are assembled on the porch. One carrying a clipboard knocks on the door. Bobby answers.*

**Bobby:** Yes?

*DDD&SSS sing their jingle*

**Denizens:** Have your Winchesters been weirded out by freaky AU stuff,  
>Where Dean was too emotional, and Sam not mean enough?<br>Call DDD&SSS to wash them 'til they gleam,  
>And kiss their owies better 'til they writhe and yelp and scream.<p>

*While they sing, Sam sneaks around the house, shins up a drainpipe and climbs into the Winchesters' room*

**Sam:** Dean, what the...?

*Dean is tied to the bed with tinsel, and gagged with a cute little bandana. Sam pulls it out of his mouth.*

**Sam:** We gotta get out of here, they're at the front door...

**Dean:** That's just a diversion! Save yourself, it's a trap!

*Before Sam can react, the closet door bangs open. LeighAnnWallace, DarlaM, AnjEmm and ccase13 burst out with supersoakers loaded with chocolate sauce. They open fire.*

**Sam and Dean:** Aaaaaaaaaargh!

*anonymouse, knivespast, KnightJelly and Leahelisabeth drop through the ceiling, their thigh holsters holding cans of whipped cream*

**Sam and Dean:** AAAAAAAAARGH!

**Georgia** (consulting clipboard): These guys are clearly showing signs of distress.

**Bartlebead** (prodding Dean briskly): Definitely, see how traumatised they look?

**PaulatheCat (walking up and down Dean): **This one feels verrrrry traumatised, meow.

**Dean:** Meeeeeep!

**Katiki:** See how traumatised they sound?

**Maybemoey:** Can I have a go with a chocolate gun?

**aeicha (frowning):** Not until you turn eighteen, my girl. Go and check to thermostat on the custard tub.

**Sam:** I don't wanna go in the custard tuuuuub! *bottom lip wibbles*

**Leahelisabeth:** Now now, don't be such a big baby. It's good for countering stress, which might make your hair start to fall out, and we don't want that do we?

**Sam:** Not my haaaaaaaair! *his eyes tear up*

**anonymouse:** Shush now, you just come along to the custard tub and everything will be all right, including your hair.

**Katiki:** Come along, be our bwave wittle twooper...

*They hustle Sam out to the van, where sloshing and squealing is heard*

**Dean:** Er, I can't go to the custard tub if I'm still kind of tied up here...

**Bartlebead:** Fear not, delicious specimen of buff yet attractively vulnerable manhood, the custard tub shall come to you!

*the sound of running feet approaches*

**Maybemoey and Georgia:** Gangwaaaaaaay!

*They burst through the door with enormous buckets of custard*

_*SLOSH*_

**Dean:** I don't wanna be dunked in custaaaaaaaard!

**Georgia:** Somebody please shut the patient up...

*Paulathecat replaces Dean's gag, but no so tightly that he can't squeal adorably*

*Shenanigans ensues*

_Downstairs_

**Castiel:** I don't understand why we are underneath this table.

**Crowley:** Be quiet! You want them to find us?

**TheBlueOrleans:** I brought a deck of cards this time. They could be a while. Oh, if they do find you, you're on your own. My advice is to play dead.

_In the kitchen_

**Bobby:** You don't look so hot.

**Lampito:** I have been unwell, Mr Singer. I'm afraid I must admire you from a distance, lest I pass my disgusting cold to you.

**Bobby:** Well, you just sit there and let me make you a cup of tea.

**Lampito:** Oh, you silver-tongued seducer.

**Bobby: **You should rest if you aint well. Hot lemon drinks is good for a sore throat, and wearin' a thick pair of socks to bed will keep you feelin' warm.

**Lampito:** Rowwwrrrr!

**Bobby:** That's a nasty sounding cough. You need some Vicks rubbed on your chest for that.

**Lampito:** *faints*

_fin_

* * *

><p>Okay, this one is finished now. Srsly. You deviated perverts (which I believe comes from Dr Strangelove, though I stand - or, more accurately, sit - to be corrected).<p>

Reviews encourage the next bunny to whisper more loudly. Curse it...


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